


Adjustment

by skadi_zlata, tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Case Fic, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skadi_zlata/pseuds/skadi_zlata, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=81341333#t81341333%20"> this prompt</a>. They were never a couple. But John somehow got used to thinking that he’d be living with Sherlock for a long, long time… Then this guy, Richard Brook, showed up – and everything went wrong.</p><p>Angst and a murder case ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to mygoldenbuttons and selana1505 for beta-ing!
> 
> This story has been translated into Korean by vanity99. You can find the translation [here](http://m.blog.naver.com/PostView.nhn?blogId=vanity89&logNo=10173315450&categoryNo=0&isFromSearchAddView=true&pushNavigation=false)

“I envy you, John,” Sherlock said gazing unseeingly through the café window, watching people passing by but obviously not noticing them. He looked sad. “It’s so simple for you, all these… relationships,” he waved his hand vaguely. “Getting along with people.”

John wouldn’t say that a series of affairs, with inevitable break-ups in the end, could be regarded as rewarding experience. Yet he was pleased that Sherlock decided to ask _him_ for advice. Or more precisely, he was glad just to see Sherlock again. They hadn’t been seeing much of each other recently, after Rich Brook had moved into 221B Baker Street – and John had moved out.

“I wanted to give it a try,” Sherlock said, almost in despair. “Relationships. That’s what everyone wants, don’t they? Something lasting. Something stable. With someone who’s mad about you… But it’s like a damn riddle to me, I can’t figure out how it should work… I make him angry, constantly.” Sherlock paused, drumming his fingers against the table. He never liked riddles. Then he added, with a bitter grin, “I know I’m not the easiest person to live with. But I never felt… like a failure. Like I’m hopeless.”

“It’s just lack of practice,” John said soothingly. “Let’s be realistic about it. You were never in a relationship before. No wonder you have some difficulties adjusting yourself to another person. It’s normal. If Rich is really mad about you, it will be fine. You just need to work out some compromise. Learn to be more compliant, not so unyielding…”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, “I’m just being myself.”

“Well, that’s the problem. This relationship thing, it’s complicated. It’s about small sacrifices. About being flexible. Sometimes you do something you don’t like, for the one you care about. You control your temper. Avoid conflicts. Otherwise, it doesn’t work.”

“I somehow managed to live with you all this time,” Sherlock burst out – and then frowned, correcting himself, “No… it’s different…”

It _was_ different, John thought bitterly. Sherlock never tried to adjust himself to John. Now, he was asking questions about compatibility issues. It seemed that Rich Brook had changed him. Well, the guy was nice, John had to admit it. Very amiable, with an ingratiating voice. Refined, but not without a sense of humor. He was working on TV, making programs for kids. The kind of person children would certainly love. John didn’t like him, but that was a personal matter. It was a sort of jealousy, he finally realized with a pang of shame. John never fancied Sherlock – well, not after that night when Sherlock had given him the brush-off, very politely. They were not a couple. But John somehow got used to thinking that they’d be living side by side for a long, long time, solving crimes together, laughing, arguing, watching telly in the evenings. Sharing not only a flat but a life, if not a bed. He never thought Sherlock would want something else. John had dates from time to time – but he always returned to his crazy flatmate, to his best friend. Sherlock was always there for him. Until one day Rich Brook walked into their lives.

John didn’t ask how it all started. It was none of his business. Sherlock vanished for a few days once. (It was nothing out of ordinary, he texted John saying he shouldn’t be worried – not that it completely dispersed John’s anxiety, but what was to be done?) And then he reappeared together with Rich. Rich moved in very soon and, despite his charms, made John feel very, very uncomfortable. The sounds coming from Sherlock’s bedroom every night were maddening, and seeing Rich’s smug face in the mornings was even worse. John decided that it would be better to leave.

After that, Sherlock had very little time for him. At first, John was texting and calling him almost every day. But often it was Rich who texted him back or picked up the phone. Sherlock’s busy, he said. You know what he’s like. Sitting at his microscope again.

So John quit calling.

He wanted his friend to be happy, even if he wasn’t part of Sherlock’s life anymore. That’s why he was now instructing Sherlock how he should behave with Rich.

“You’ll cope, I’m sure,” he said. “It’s alright to have arguments, there’s no such thing as perfect relationships. It’s kind of unrealistic to think you’re never going to row. Just try to make it up to him when you do. Think what you’ve maybe done wrong. Say sorry. It’s simple. And you’ll be fine.” He leaned forward and reassuringly patted Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock suddenly winced at the touch, and it wasn’t just a scornful grimace.

“A bruise,” he responded briefly to John’s worried look.

“An experiment gone wrong again?”

“Sort of. My fault. Never mind.”

John sighed. Apparently, Rich’s influence was not enough to stop brilliant Sherlock from doing foolish things every once in a while.

***

Living without Sherlock turned out to be bearable. More or less. John could handle it. He had a job, and mundane things to do. Lots of distractions. It was as if a dazzling light John had got used to had been suddenly switched off, leaving him in the grey ordinary world. But some people lived in it their whole life, without craving for brighter radiance. John, too, could learn to exist in the dull twilight again. He just needed time.

He’d become attracted to Sherlock so much that not seeing him hurt almost physically at first, but it was probably for the best that they didn’t meet often, John told himself. He didn’t want Sherlock to notice… damn… he couldn’t quite formulate what Sherlock was supposed to notice. Regrets maybe. The more John thought about the time he’d spent with Sherlock, the more he understood – it was true that Sherlock never tried to adjust himself to John, but he never really needed to. It didn’t seem to matter. Sherlock had brought so much light into John’s life that all the little irritating things he’d brought too somehow dissolved in the constant warm glow. And this glow… it was something more than simple physical attraction, the one John felt for Sherlock when they first met.

His single awkward attempt to make an advance on Sherlock was an impulse. John wasn’t looking for more than a shag back then. Maybe not a one-night stand, but nothing serious. Sherlock pretty much rejected him flat out, though he said he was flattered. And afterwards, John thought it would only have made things complicated if Sherlock had responded otherwise.

Perhaps he should have taken a risk and asked Sherlock again, some time later, when they knew each other much better. But what was the use of self-reproaches now?

They were so much alike, Sherlock and Rich. They looked good together. A couple. John couldn’t stop imagining their life together…

By some unhappy coincidence, the only time he decided he should get indecently drunk and stop thinking about it all he met Lestrade in a pub. Inevitably, they ended up talking about Sherlock. He took no police cases now, Greg said, busy enough with private investigations.

“Never thought I’d be missing the guy,” he chuckled. “By the way, I came across your blog recently. No updates?”

“Not much to say.”

“Who is writing up Sherlock’s cases, then?”

John had no idea. Rich had his own promising career, it was rather unlikely that he would dedicate himself to describing Sherlock’s adventures, and Sherlock didn’t bother to tell John about any of them. In fact, he didn’t bother to call or show up at all.

It was a surprise for John, therefore, to see Sherlock standing on the threshold of his flat one evening. It struck him that Sherlock looked even paler and thinner than usual. Exhausted, almost ill.

“You live in a slum,” Sherlock declared. “I’ll come in if you don’t mind.”

John belatedly stepped aside and let him in. “Yeah, not a prime spot. Sorry.”

There was something strange with the way Sherlock walked. His gait was unnaturally stiff, and he held his right arm close to his body as though he was trying not to move it much.

“Sherlock…”

“You’re alone. Weren’t you supposed to live happily ever after with that boring teacher… what was her name?”

“Jeanette. Doesn’t matter. Sherlock, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Sherlock gingerly shook the coat off, threw it on the only chair in the room and slowly eased himself onto the sofa. “Yes. Can I stay here for a while?”

“Sure… But Sherlock… shouldn’t we get you to hospital?”

Sherlock looked up at him. “Don’t bother. No serious damage. Just bruises, scratches, nothing life threatening…”

“Can I take a look at least?”

Sherlock didn’t answer right away, then started unbuttoning his shirt left-handed. 

“And maybe we should call Richard,” John suggested. Rich was most likely going mad with anxiety while Sherlock was chasing criminals and getting himself into scuffles.

Sherlock scowled. “No. Don’t. He’ll be angry with me.”

“Of course he will,” John grumbled. “There’s nothing unusual in that. That’s the way you make everyone feel.”

It’s always infuriating when someone you love gets hurt due to his incorrigible carelessness.

“Could you please shut up,” Sherlock snapped, but without much fervour. “I know I’m to blame. I know I’ve provoked it. No need to remind me.”

He finally peeled his shirt off, and John saw what he’d called “bruises and scratches”.

It had been a cane, most likely. Judging from the angle of the welts, Sherlock must have been knocked down to the ground, or forced to his knees – and someone had been lashing his shoulders with brutal determination. Sherlock tried to guard his head with his right hand, but there were no other signs of resistance. Perhaps Sherlock couldn’t fight several armed assailants. On the whole, it looked like a punishment beating, not an attempt to kill. In the end, the cane had splintered into sharp thongs from the force of impact – there were two long cuts across Sherlock’s right forearm and palm, with crusts of dried blood.

John was very careful checking Sherlock’s collarbones, shoulder-blades, ribs on both sides. Nothing life threatening, that was true. Still he was in a pretty bad way.

“Hurts much?”

Sherlock made an attempt to shrug his shoulders – and failed, with a painful wince. “A little. Mostly, I’m just tired. Couldn’t you find a flat closer to a tube station?”

“You went on a tube like that?!”

“I couldn’t hail a cab. Went out without my wallet. No cash, just a few coins in my pockets.”

He came to _you_ , a voice whispered in John’s mind. To you, not to his Richard.

“Right…” John said aloud, ignoring it. “What do we need… Sterile gauze, antiseptic… A cold compress for your bruises…”

When John had finished with the cuts, he couldn’t resist an urge to take Sherlock’s hand in both of his, rubbing gently at his fingers.

“You should be more cautious with your hands. How will you be playing your violin if you damage them?”

Sherlock snorted, “Rich says Bach would be appalled if he heard me playing.”

“I liked the way you played.”

“Then you are probably tone-deaf, unlike Rich and Bach.”

“Lucky me.”

Sherlock smiled, holding his gaze. “Lucky you.”

What would happen if I leaned in and kissed him, right now, John suddenly thought.

He let go of Sherlock’s hand. “I think we _should_ call Rich,” he said, after an awkward pause. “That’s not right. To ignore him, I mean. He’ll be looking for you.”

“He will,” Sherlock agreed and closed his eyes wearily. “Alright. If you insist. Call him.”

Richard was indeed anxious, as John had expected. He bombarded John with questions – had Sherlock told him what had happened, who’d assaulted him? – and said he would come to take Sherlock home.

Sherlock nodded dispassionately at the news. He looked worn out and listless.

Rich arrived very soon. He was concerned, maybe a bit offended that it wasn’t Sherlock who’d called him, but still very gentle and affectionate.

“You should never hide from me,” John heard him whispering softly to Sherlock. “You know I’ll always find you, so what’s the use of this secrecy. Now, the taxi’s waiting. Let’s not impose on John’s hospitality anymore.”


	2. Chapter 2

***

The next morning, John called to learn if Sherlock was fine. Rich answered the phone. He said Sherlock was sleeping and assured John that no more medical treatment was required and they would cope by themselves.

When John made another call a few hours later, Sherlock’s phone had been turned off. So that no one would disturb him perhaps, John told himself. Sherlock needed rest. No reason to worry.

A strange thought, though, kept haunting John. Those gashes on Sherlock’s forearm… There had been no cuts on his coat or his shirt, his arm must have been bare when he’d been thrashed. Strange for a street fight, wasn’t it? Besides, Sherlock said he had left his wallet at home. What could make him rush out in such a hurry?

John very much wanted to go to Baker Street, just to see if he had been stupid worrying for nothing – and to leave with a mixture of shame and relief. He had a shift at the surgery, but it was more the thought of Sherlock being displeased that stopped him. If Sherlock wanted a quiet day with no phone calls, he surely would be annoyed if John came to see him… But what if John paid a visit to Mrs Hudson in the evening? He could have a nice chat with his former landlady if Sherlock wasn’t inclined to receive guests. Yes, a good idea.

Mrs Hudson was genuinely glad to see him, and it was… touching, really. John looked around the hallway, returning a hug. It used to be his home. It felt like home. And yet it wasn’t anymore.

“Richard is away, but Sherlock must be here,” Mrs Hudson reported as John followed her to the kitchen. “He has been so sullen lately, poor dear, maybe you’ll cheer him up.”

“Bored?”

A small frown crossed her forehead. “No, not bored. Though I wouldn’t be surprised. As far as I know, he’s solved only a few cases in the last months. Richard disapproved of all those strange people coming and going, all those clients. Sherlock doesn’t consult them here anymore. Maybe he’s only consulting Scotland Yard now, he wouldn’t tell. I don’t see much of him.” She turned away to take a mug for John from the cupboard, and a plate of biscuits too. “Richard says I’m not their housekeeper and I don’t have to visit their flat daily, so I don’t bother them, I haven’t even seen the remodeling in your former room… But still, I _do_ notice some things. You know what Sherlock’s usually like, dashing about, all happy about a new murder, or burning something in the kitchen. Well, he’s not like that anymore. When I see Sherlock from time to time, he’s never excited. It’s… too quiet there, upstairs. No explosions. No sounds of violin at night. I know I should be happy about it, but a strange thing – I’m not.”

John drank the tea and ate the biscuits, out of sheer politeness, not noticing their taste. In fact he was desperate to go and see Sherlock. When he finally made his way into the living room in the first floor, he was a bit edgy, though he couldn’t quite explain why. He was greeted by dead silence.

“Sherlock?”

He knocked at the door of Sherlock’s bedroom. It was an impolite thing to do, but after a moment of hesitation, he opened it without permission. The room was empty, and the bedclothes weren’t even rumpled. John’s former room was locked, and no one answered when he knocked there too. Maybe Sherlock was away after all, and Mrs Hudson just hadn’t noticed him going out.

John was coming downstairs when he saw a cane leaned to one of the armchairs in the living room. A splintered cane.

John almost ran back to the locked door, heart clenching. “Sherlock? Are you there? Sherlock!” He knocked again, but got no answer. _Mrs Hudson will forgive me_ , he decided – and took a step back. It’s easy to break a door if you don’t ram it with your shoulder like some movie guys do but aim at the lock and kick next to it with all the force you can manage. The door flapped open after the first blow. For a moment, John stopped at the threshold, not believing his eyes at first.

Sherlock. In the middle of the room. Naked. With his hands bound above his head and tied to a chain hanging from the ceiling, ankles secured to the pegs in the floor. ( _Remodeling_ , a thought ran through John’s mind and vanished.) Sherlock’s back was striped from shoulders to thighs, the weals crisscrossing in an orderly pattern over the older bruises.

It took a few seconds for John to come to his senses – and a few minutes to untie Sherlock, trying not to damage his wrists more than they already were. Sherlock’s legs gave way under him – and he would have slumped to the floor if John wasn’t holding him.

“It’s all right, I’m all right,” Sherlock muttered, staggering dizzily, but it seemed that he barely understood what he was saying. “John, please. Go away. Please. I don’t want you to see me like that. Go.”

“Like hell I will,” John breathed out fiercely, having noticed a brand new switch in the corner. The room was empty of all furniture, it looked like a minimalist torture chamber.

John helped Sherlock to stand up, very slowly. “Can you walk? We’ll take you to bed. Just one effort – and it will be over.”

He guided Sherlock downstairs, to the bedroom, one step after another.

“No, I can’t,” Sherlock mumbled as John tried to lay him down to bed. “I should take a shower first. The sheets are clean, Rich will be angry if I…”

To hell with Rich. "To bed, I said. Now,” John ordered through gritted teeth, and Sherlock was too weak to protest further.

“Woohoo! Is everything okay up there?” Mrs Hudson cheerfully called from the hallway. “I’ve heard the noise.”

“Yes, perfectly fine!” John responded loudly, with exaggerated confidence. Not really a good timing for explanations. He’ll take care of Sherlock first.

John almost whined when he took a closer look at Sherlock’s welted back. “ _He_ did this to you? Why didn’t you bloody call out for help?”

“I’m all right,” Sherlock whispered again, persistently. “Just a bit sore. And thirsty. He would have untied me. Soon, when he returned. That was agreed. You shouldn’t interfere. I’m fine.”

“No, you are not. How’d you mean – that was agreed?” For an instant, John thought that maybe – maybe – it had been some weird sort of sexual game… but even if so…

Sherlock looked sideways at him, with a frown, as if everything were obvious. “I let him. I had to. How else I was supposed to make it up to him? It wouldn’t have happened at all if I hadn’t left yesterday. I’ve done something very wrong, he got mad at me, and I… I had no courage to stand the punishment. I knew I was to blame – I took a police case though I’d promised him not to, and I wasn’t home for two days. Couldn’t resist… And I was so happy… so happy that it didn’t matter if I was to pay for it afterwards. I thought so. But when it got to the payback part, I just couldn’t endure it, not right then. So tired. With adrenaline gone…” He winced as if with self-disgust. “Pathetic, aren’t I? But then I came to you – and you said I shouldn’t run away – and of course you were right. So I told Rich he could do anything he wanted to me.”

Perhaps John’s face was very expressive at this moment because Sherlock added, almost soothingly, “Now it’s all done. I’ll heal in a few days, I always do.”

John didn’t recognize his own voice when he asked huskily, “Does it happen often? These punishments.”

“No, not now,” Sherlock assured him. “Things got better after we’d had that talk, about being flexible and working out compromises. It made me re-evaluate my behaviour. Considerably. Rich just wanted our life to be less messy, he needed some sacrifices from my part, but that’s what relationships are about. So I tried to adjust myself to him. As you’d recommended. Rich said I should do only those clients who paid well enough – and I gave up police cases. It was… not easy. Harder than giving up the violin. And some experiments – well, most of them… But I coped with that. He never had much reason to correct me since then. And he was very patient even if he did. He never reproached me if I wasn’t willing to perform… the sex thing. I only had to lie still…” He pressed his lips together for a moment, but then continued in his normal tone, “I mean I’m alright, John, seriously. We have some problems, but who doesn’t… Why are you looking at me like that?”

John rubbed his forehead, not quite able to process Sherlock’s words. “So he was abusing you, all this time. Oh Christ. Sherlock… I had no idea…”

Sherlock glared, apparently uncomprehending and even offended. “No, he wasn’t. I’m perfectly capable of defending myself if I’m being attacked. I told you – I _let_ him punish me if I was at fault. It’s not abuse when you agree to being beaten. You said I should avoid conflicts – and that’s my way to do it. A compensation for misbehaviour. Normally, I’m okay with that. A few bruises... it’s nothing,” He raised himself on his elbows, agitated, but immediately sank back onto the pillow, clearly regretting the effort. “As for yesterday… it was a lapse. I was exhausted, and it hurt, I wanted to lie down somewhere but not on the floor upstairs… Maybe I was a bit out of my mind when I went away. It won’t happen again. We should reconcile all the conflicts between ourselves. I shouldn’t have come to you, and I’m grateful you’ve ordered me home…”

“Sherlock, what are you saying, for God’s sake? Me? Order you home?”

“You called Rich.”

“I would have called police if I knew he’d done that to you. Sherlock, I’m not that smart… how was I supposed to understand…”

“Police? What for?” Sherlock interrupted him warily. “I don’t want that. John. Promise me. Promise you won’t tell anyone. They’ll be saying what you’ve said. That I wasn’t able to defend myself. It’s not true, but that’s what they’ll be thinking.”

Richard Brook chose this dramatic moment to appear on the scene. He was an actor, after all. John heard the door bang in the hallway, and Mrs Hudson’s voice too, “Oh Richard, guess who’s come to see Sherlock.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” John said grimly.

“Tell him I wasn’t asking you to untie me, will you?” Sherlock murmured into the pillow.

John sighed, clenched his fists and went downstairs. In front of Mrs Hudson, it wouldn’t be quite convenient to do to Richard Brook what he was very much inclined to do. Maybe not kill him. But make him experience something extremely traumatic. Just a punch in the nose wasn’t enough, though Rich definitely was going to get it.

But it won’t be difficult to find the man later, John thought. And then… There are dark alleys in London. Abandoned buildings. Empty warehouses.

***

Sherlock must have heard everything that had happened in the hallway, but he didn’t comment on it when John came back, or pay attention to his abraded knuckles. He just sighed, “Since you’re here anyway, a mug of water would be good.” He drank hastily – it looked like he had been thirsty for hours – and didn’t argue when John suggested he should take pain medication. John was unaccustomed to seeing him so exhausted and indifferent. It was frightening.

How could you agree to all this, John wanted to bark at him, still frantic after the fight. Why, Sherlock, why on earth would you accept such an ugly relationship, let this bastard beat you? Do you love him that much?

Instead of saying it, he attended to Sherlock’s back, applying cold compresses to reduce the swelling – and also meeting no resistance on Sherlock’s part. Then he let Sherlock rest, with the words, “I’ll be in the next room if you need me.” He thought Sherlock would sniff and say something snide like, “Why would I need you.” That would have been his normal response. But this time, John got no reaction at all.

Sleeping on the sofa turned out to be most inconvenient, though Mrs Hudson had generously provided him with “guest” linen and a blanket, but John couldn’t go to his own flat right now and leave Sherlock alone.

Not because he thought Rich would return. That was rather unlikely because John had combined a very convincing punch with a very convincing threat of a police case. Whatever Sherlock might say, a beating was still an assault. Even if Sherlock said it had been consensual, it would be a matter for the court, since it had resulted in marks which were more than trifling. John would be a witness. If Rich were smart, he would avoid 221B Baker Street like a pest house.

It was Sherlock himself that made John worry. John had never seen him so subdued.

The next day proved John to be right about Richard. He didn’t show up, he sent his press agent, a ginger haired girl, to gather some of his most valuable belongings. Ms Riley gave John a “you-repel-me” look when he didn’t let her into the bedroom where Sherlock was still dozing, exhausted to the limit, and brought Richard’s clothes from the closet in a few messy heaps himself. John wondered what Richard had told her about his nose. Not the truth, obviously.

It took some time to find Richard’s favourite blue tie with little sculls on it, and his laptop turned out to be hiding in plain sight on the desk. John was tempted to ask if Ms Riley would like to take the switch with her, too, but didn’t.

It was a week-end, John could stay at Sherlock’s flat all day long and wait until Sherlock emerged from his room or called him. The longer this waiting lasted, the more nervous John grew. He couldn’t figure out what to say, what to do. How would Sherlock respond to the news that Rich had been kicked out for good?

Finally, he heard Sherlock’s voice, “John, stop hovering around, come in and let’s talk if you want to…”

In the dim light, the room was a gloomy spot. Still lying in his bed, covered with a crumpled sheet, Sherlock looked more than just ill. He looked lifeless. The man who had always been tense like a coiled spring while resting, ready to jump up any moment, was now slack and motionless like a rag doll. This sight sent a chill to John’s heart.

“I don’t blame you, John, if that’s what you are afraid of,” Sherlock said, staring into space. “He would have broken up with me sooner or later anyway, without your interference. I was reluctant to admit it, but it’s true, I had it coming. I failed.”

“Sherlock, how’d you mean – failed? How’d you mean – _he_ broke up with you? You got rid of him, finally, you should be glad he left. Whatever you feel for him… it was no reason to let him treat you like he did.” John sank to the floor, beside the bed, so that his face would be at the same level with Sherlock’s. “Look. You were not even happy with him.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched slightly. “Relationships are not always about being happy. I know that. Perhaps we were not an ideal match. But he was the only one to suggest… a long-term deal. Maybe even lifelong. Not just sexual entertainment for a week or two. The only one who said we had a special something. He tried to put up with me. He never used correction without cause and without my permission. It was… tolerable.”

John sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his short hair. Dealing with physical traumas was much easier than with psychological ones. “Sherlock. You’re smart. You see through everything so easily. You should understand then, the way you’ve been treated – just – isn’t – normal. Sometimes it’s better to be alone than to stay in a bad relationship. Believe me.”

After a pause, Sherlock let out a short bitter laugh. “Normal! Of course not. A normal attitude is for normal people. Not for me. And don’t say there’s nothing wrong with me, my whole life proves otherwise. I make everyone angry – that’s your own words, John, and it’s all true. It always has been that way. It’s me who makes relationships bad. Provokes aggression. Mycroft never had to be corrected, not just once… This time, I did my best to adjust, almost to the point of not being myself. I thought I could cope with that if I really tried. I was wrong.”

“Sherlock…”

“As for being alone – alone is what I had, for quite a while. And that’s what I’ll have from now on. I guess I should avoid all future attempts at a relationship. At having a family. It doesn’t work for me.”

“Sherlock, maybe I’ve put it the wrong way. You’re not alone. I’m here for you if you need me, you know that. I just meant…”

Sherlock suddenly reached out his hand and squeezed John’s palm. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I do. You’re the only friend I’ve got, the only one I ever had, and it says much of your patience,” he managed a feeble crooked smile. “But it’s different. Far more uncomplicated than it is with a family. You are not responsible for me. For my behaviour. You don’t _have_ to care for me, or improve my character, or worry about my financial security, or plan my life, which is sometimes difficult without… extreme measures. Now, it’s simple. I like you. You like me too, in a way. Then… you’ll have a family of your own, and it’s over. We’re not bound, and knowing me by now, you should admit it’s to the good.”

I’m bound to you more than you can imagine, John wanted to say, but it was probably not the right timing to make such a confession. “Maybe I don’t have to care for you. That doesn’t mean I can stop caring.” He still held Sherlock’s hand, just like he did two days ago. “And it seems – we are not speaking of the same things.”

***

Now John knew how Sherlock must have felt explaining something obvious to him – well, obvious from Sherlock’s point of view. Incredulity. (How is it possible not to get it?!) Exasperation. (You still don’t understand, do you?) Discontent with his own ability to clarify simple facts. (Alright. Let’s try again, dammit.)

No matter what he said, Sherlock remained firmly convinced that he deserved the way he had been treated. Stubborn idiot. John was never good at conversations, he didn’t know what to say, how to explain to Sherlock that he was wrong. He could see by Sherlock’s unresponsive face that he was arguing in vain.

John wasn’t even sure that further discussions on the matter would help at all. His own attempts at solving problems by discussing them had been pathetic. Ella, his therapist, used to tell him presumably right and wise things when he was damaged and lost, but her commonplace statements were never of much help, however correct they might have been. It was Sherlock who saved him, who made him feel alive again – without much talking. So maybe it was possible to skip the psychological stuff, John thought. He’d provide Sherlock with attention and care, show him he was worth loving – and hope that Sherlock would realize everything himself, given time.

They didn’t discuss it at all, but it was apparent that John would return to Baker Street. He felt terrible for being happy about it.

Soon, John’s few possessions were gathered and transferred, and he temporarily settled down in the living room. He went to work as usual but instructed Mrs Hudson to call him immediately if anything happened. He wasn’t sure what was to occur, still he felt more calm knowing she’d look after Sherlock. It was rather unlikely that she could secretly follow Sherlock if he left the flat, but fortunately (or not quite so, come to think of it?), Sherlock showed no intention to go out at all.

Physically he was alright, more or less. His emotional state, though, left much to be desired. He didn’t eat, barely talked, only to correct the television… Yeah, same old Sherlock. Except that he wasn’t hyperactive like he used to be. He wasn’t pacing around the room demanding a case to solve, and the kitchen table was frighteningly clean of suspicious malodorous experiments. John would have preferred to see Sherlock restless, rude, arrogant, and not so numb and inert as he was now. He would have preferred music at strange hours and even occasional gun practice sessions indoors to the silence that surrounded Sherlock as he lay in his bed or dawdled around the flat with no particular purpose.

“I thought my mind was like an engine,” Sherlock told him once. “Now it’s more like a wheel, it’s turning, turning, turning, out of control, and it’s going nowhere.” It seemed that he was tearing himself to pieces from within. John wanted to hug him and hold him and whisper he’d be alright, but he wasn’t sure Sherlock wouldn’t just flinch and twist out muttering that it was childish. Besides – and this thought bothered John much more – wouldn’t Sherlock see something else than a simple wish to comfort him in this sudden over-familiar embrace, in this intimate touch? For there _was_ something else.


	3. Chapter 3

***

In the next weeks, the only change in the routine was a dull ache John was beginning to feel in his damaged shoulder from sleeping on the sofa. Sherlock was still in depressed spirits, and the only person who shared John’s growing concern about his state of mind was Mrs Hudson. There was nothing on the web site. No distractions. John secretly called Lestrade to ask him if he had any cases for Sherlock. If only he could do something else… 

Sometimes John wished Richard Brook dead or badly injured – and Sherlock learning about it. Sort of restoring balance to the universe. Sometimes he wished Sherlock could just forget everything that had happened. But even if Sherlock was able to delete facts from his hard-drive, maybe it was more difficult with emotions.

Mycroft paid them a visit once, but it was not of much help. On the contrary, this visit ended most awkwardly. When John arrived, the two brothers were already sitting opposite each other in the living room, the strained strings of silence almost visible between them. Something had been said, and it looked like the conversation hadn’t been pleasant for both parties.

“John,” Mycroft forced out a polite, formal smile. “How nice to see you. I’m glad you’ve moved in with my brother again, despite some obvious inconveniences. Your shoulder must be hurting you – sofa, Sherlock, it was the sofa. Don’t blame it on the change of weather.”

“Oh. Of course.” A quick look at John – and Sherlock turned away, avoiding his gaze.

“It’s not so bad. It’s temporarily. I mean – these problems with furniture,” John said. He felt like he was apologizing for something. Damn.

“Anyhow, it’s a better location than your former flat,” Mycroft continued, dismissing John’s explanations with a gracious wave of his hand. “A sufficient compensation for lack of furniture and my brother’s tantrums. What’s he like to live with? Still hellish, I would imagine. Your tolerance must be remarkable. No one else seems able to endure Sherlock’s company for long. As far as I can see, that charming young man from TV was no exception to the rule.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. Then he just stood up and left for his room. The door banged. Mycroft demonstratively shrugged his shoulders. “Always so aggressive,” he sighed. “No wonder they broke up.”

“Mycroft, you’re wrong,” John hissed at him. “You got it wrong. If you’re as concerned about him as you always say you are – how could you not notice what was going on between them? This charming young man…” John inhaled and exhaled in order to calm down. “Jesus, if you were there, if you saw what he did to Sherlock, you wouldn’t call him charming!”

“John, shut up and tell him to get out,” Sherlock’s voice came from the bedroom, muffled but still loud enough.

“I’ll see you out,” John said. He wasn’t going to discuss Rich Brook with Mycroft if Sherlock didn’t want him to, but when they were in the hallway, he couldn’t stop himself from asking in a quiet voice, “Sherlock…was he ever… I don’t know… abused as a kid? Physically punished? Was he… used to it?”

There was a short pause before Mycroft said, “We had a traditional family, John. Ordinary in many ways. Sherlock never fit in.”

“Why not tell me directly? Total silence is traditional too, is it? A stain on your family honour?”

Mycroft’s face contorted, just for a second. “Tell him I’m sorry, would you? That wasn’t what I thought. It’s good you are here. If there is some financial incentive I can offer you to stay with him…”

“So you want me to watch out for your brother after a bad break-up.”

Mycroft’s lips twisted, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“How very considerate of you. Taking into account that I’ll stay with him anyway. Goodbye, Mycroft.”

Sherlock was standing at the top of the stairs, leaning to the wall, when John came up. He reached out a hand and touched John’s shoulder slightly. “I observe – but don’t pay attention. Typical of me, isn’t it? You’ll move into my room. Don't be absurd,” he cut off John’s unsaid objections, “it’s no discomfort for me. I don’t sleep much anyway.” He suddenly faltered, and took his hand off John’s shoulder. “I mean – it makes no difference if I spend a few nights on the sofa instead of you. Until we sort things out. Buy something suitable. Then you’ll take the room upstairs again.”

Maybe it was the expression on his face that made Sherlock stammer over what he was saying, John thought later. For John had a brief but bright vision of them sharing a bed, his head comfortably pillowed on Sherlock’s arm. Oh God, how stupid it was. Stupid. Stupid.

Fortunately, it caused no further tension. As for sleeping in Sherlock’s double bed… well, it felt strange. But it was temporary, anyway, and Sherlock never disturbed him – at least until, after a week or so, he suddenly burst into the bedroom early in the morning to gather his clothes from the wardrobe, in a state of somewhat sinister cheerfulness, close to his usual agitation when on a case.

“Lestrade called?” John remarked casually, wondering if there was time for breakfast. Luckily, he had a day off.

“The faculty of deduction must be contagious,” Sherlock sniffed. “Yes. I’ve been summoned. A mysterious murder on Barts Hospital roof. Are you coming?”

***

The first thing John saw when he came out into the midday light that flooded the rooftop was the perfect white dome of St Paul’s. He narrowed his eyes in the bright sun, and it was not until Sherlock’s hand suddenly clutched at the sleeve of his jacket that he paid attention to the cause of their visit to the roof of Barts Hospital. The body lay right next to the exit, and judging from the short stripe of smeared blood, it had been moved away from the door.

Expensive shoes. A posh suit. Dead eyes.

“Richard Brook,” Sherlock said in a low dull voice and let go of John’s sleeve.

“So you must be watching telly from time to time after all,” Lestrade chuckled beside them. “Yes, Richard Brook. Or, James Moriarty, according to his ID. Brook was his stage name. Sounds better than Moriarty, at least he thought so. Shot in the head from close quarters, behind the right temple. No signs of struggle. The weapon is missing.”

“Who moved the body?”

“The maintenance guy who found him. The body was blocking the exit, he couldn’t come out at first.”

“No one heard the shot?”

“No one reported it. It was a bit loud down there, in the street. Construction work. Trucks coming and leaving. You know, that project to redevelop Barts as a Cancer and Cardiac Centre. As the staff says, some disruption and noise is inevitable. Even if someone heard a single shot, it could be interpreted as something harmless.”

As if to confirm Lestrade’s words, a highly unpleasant solo of an electric drill interrupted the conversation. John wouldn’t call this sound harmless. Sherlock kept staring at the spot where Brook had been shot, at the stains of blood on the door. “Shouldn’t it have been locked? Any ideas how – and why – he came to be here? As well as the one who found him?”

“The roof is usually inaccessible for public, but the thing is, they were going to film something here, for BBC. The crew was to shoot the scene today, and that’s when the body was found, to the general confusion. The maintenance lad and the cameraman who was accompanying him were the first and only ones to see Brook lying there, but the whole stunt team knows by now. They all have already been here a few times, checking the spot – a sort of test strip. A member of staff always accompanied them, but it looks like they left the door unlocked between the visits. Someone’s going to be disciplined for this, I guess.”

“Other exits?”

“None. There are rusted fire stairs, behind this old chimney, but they now lead to another section of the roof which is not accessible. No exit. You couldn’t get down there unless you jumped.”

Sherlock lost interest in the blood pattern marring the door and went to the edge of the roof. With his customary diplomacy and tact, he turned away from Lestrade, and the DI was now talking to his back. “Brook was supposed to take part in the filming today too – funny enough, he was playing the main villain. But no one knows why he would have come here earlier in the morning, all alone. The director says Brook was a kind of self-proclaimed star, he wouldn’t even think he needed another rehearsal on his own before the filming.”

Sherlock walked along the narrow ledge to the corner of the roof, staring down all the time. John followed him. What was he looking at? The ledge, the lower sections of the roof, or the gap between the buildings? Or was he just biding time?

“There’s a fact that might be of interest, though,” Lestrade added behind them. “Brook’s girlfriend works here. I mean – not on the filming crew. Here, at Bart’s, in the mortuary. Surely you know her. One Molly Hooper. And the rumor is that not everything was fine between them.”

“Hm,” said Sherlock. He stood watching Giltspur Street below, hands behind his back, long fingers tapping in an agitated manner. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered. He felt uneasy, he wished he’d never called Lestrade asking him to give Sherlock a case to solve. Should they tell Lestrade that Sherlock knew the victim? He’ll find it out anyway, that’s only a question of time.

Without turning to him, Sherlock muttered, “No trace of struggle. Huh!”

“And another rumor… Might be of importance, too,” Lestrade continued, perhaps beginning to wonder why Sherlock was contemplating the traffic instead of examining the body. “The guys from the filming crew say Brook has been nervous the whole week. He had a feeling that he was being followed.”

Sherlock suddenly kicked the ledge with the sole of his shoe. Bent down to see the result. Frowned. Then swiftly went back to the spot where he started. “No trace of struggle, you say. Look! His left hand – there’s a mark – something has been torn out of his grip, with force. And what’s this?” He pointed at a chip on the ledge, just opposite the place where the body originally lay. The stonework was grey, but there it showed white for a space not larger than a coin.

“Another shot?” suggested Lestrade. “Was he armed too?”

“No. Not a shot. A sharp blow. And there are no such chips elsewhere. It took some violence to do that. I struck the ledge without leaving a mark.” Sherlock whipped his lens from the pocket of his coat and began to examine the stonework. “In a curious place, too. It looks like the knock was not from above but from below.”

“It may have nothing to do with the matter.”

“It may,” Sherlock agreed and finally turned to Lestrade. “How do you think it all happened? Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment. But what about getting out? The victim was standing at the door leaning to it. The murderer shot him and somehow went out without moving the body that must have been in his way. Or, as you say, jumped from the roof to leave the scene intact, as he had no other exit. Which is an interesting idea, of course, but hardly the most credible one.” He put away the lens and declared, “Done here for now. I’ll talk to Molly if she’s in the hospital.”

“The TV crew is still here if you wish to talk to them too,” Lestrade suggested.

Sherlock gave a nod, preoccupied with his thoughts, “Fine. But Molly Hooper goes first.”

“So it’s the girlfriend, then,” Sergeant Donovan joined in. “The one who’s slicing up cadavers. Might have the nerve for murder.”

“And I thought it’s me who’s supposed to make freakish remarks here,” Sherlock muttered, without a glance in her direction. “If being a forensic pathologist were a sign of wickedness, you should have arrested Anderson long ago. Which would be for the best, perhaps.” He turned his collar up and rapidly walked down the stairs, not waiting for her to reply.

John wondered if Lestrade – or anyone else – noticed that _he_ hadn’t touched the body and Sherlock hadn’t told him to. Just a little suspicious detail.


	4. Chapter 4

As they went through the hospital corridors, John wondered how they ought to tell Molly Hooper her boyfriend was dead. (Was it right to call him that? And what was Sherlock thinking of Richard Brook who had found a substitute for his former lover so quickly?) But of course they didn’t have to explain anything. Molly knew already. In a white lab coat, with something shapeless beneath it, she looked small, shoulders hunched as if she wanted to look even smaller. She was clutching at her clipboard, unsure what to do with her hands.

“Chris told me, the one who found him, and Sergeant… oh, I don’t remember her name… came to question me after that,” she was saying all that in her usual hasty faltering manner, addressing John rather than Sherlock. “She was nice to me, they all were. I think they expected me to cry. Or maybe not. A lady who works in the morgue is supposed to be accustomed to people dying, right? That’s what he called me. The lady who works in the morgue.” She let out a short chuckle. “The lady. Funny, isn’t it?”

“You changed your hair,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“What?” Molly asked, startled.

“The style. You never wore your hair loose before. It’s good. It suits you better this way.”

“Oh. Yes. Well.” There was something strange about the expression on her face – she wasn’t flattered, she wasn’t embarrassed with Sherlock’s inappropriate remark either, she was… panicky. Even John could tell that. But probably just because it wasn’t the right time for compliments, he thought, when Sherlock reached out to touch her hair.

“Molly? May I?” 

He brushed a strand back from her neck, and John saw it. A fading red line that disappeared under her collar. It was still bright in contrast to the whiteness of her lab coat.

“Are there more?” Sherlock asked quietly, and Molly nodded. “Oh Molly.”

The next thing to happen wasn’t what John would expect. Molly leaned forward, and all of a sudden she was sobbing into Sherlock’s coat, “He said I would like it, new experience and all that, and I thought why not, I was nervous a bit, but he assured me it would be fun… He said safewords were just a formality for frightened little girls – am I one? I thought we were just experimenting so he would stop anyway if I asked him to. But he didn’t.”

It was perhaps the first time John saw Sherlock looking helpless, completely at a loss. At first, he just stood there letting Molly cling on to him, then tentatively wrapped his arms around her.

“I wish you had seen him,” Molly muttered, her voice still shaky. “You would have known what he was like, you’d have told me I should break it off... before he…”

“Who knew about it?” Sherlock interrupted her.

She moved away from him, wiped her face, starting to clam down. “I only told Meena, the girl who works at the canteen. We sometimes eat together when she has a break. She said that maybe he hadn’t understood I was telling him to stop for real. I should have negotiated about all the potential issues more clearly in advance. And she just… she just continued to pick at her pasta… I didn’t want anyone else to know.”

Sherlock frowned, uncomprehending, “Then why start discussing your life in the local gossip spot? There must be quite a number of people who overheard you, or whom your confidante – Meena? that girl at the checkout? – could have whispered a word to, for she seems to be a sociable type. It’s as if you pin your story to a notice board with an inscription in capital letters – ‘to whom it may concern’.”

Molly stared at him in horror. “D’you think there are rumors about me? If someone tells the police about all that now… wouldn’t they suspect me? Because… because I had a reason to…”

Sherlock made a grimace. “No one is going to suspect you. You only do post-mortems because you’re afraid to cause damage to the living, uncertain about your medical abilities. Which are mediocre, that’s true.”

“Sherlock!” John hissed at him.

“What? It’s pretty obvious that Molly is harmless. And moreover, sensible when it concerns someone else’s life. Who’d think she’s an audacious criminal mastermind, except maybe for Sergeant Donovan? Don't worry, Molly, this is just stupid.”

A nice way to state that, John thought. But Molly was too absorbed in her distress to notice Sherlock’s reassuring remark. She just whispered, palms pressed to her cheeks, “How could I know he would do this? How could I know? Now I keep thinking – what if it’s my fault that he…”

“Of course it’s not your fault that he was so cruel to you,” John interrupted her. “You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

At this very inappropriate moment, the door opened and a freckled lad looked in. “Molly? I was just passing by. Have you sorted things out with the police?”

“Oh. I think so, yes. Thanks, Chris.” She looked hesitant as if she wasn’t sure whether she should introduce Sherlock and John to the newcomer, but decided not to. Maybe she didn’t want him to come in and notice she had been crying.

“Oh well,” he ran a hand through his short hair, lingering at the door, and finally mumbled, “If you need something, tell me, okay?”

When he disappeared, Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “So it’s Chris. A secret admirer. So worried about you.”

“He’s not!” Molly protested. “I mean – maybe he’s worried, but he’s not my admirer. He’s not. He’s just a friend.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “For gods’ sakes. The look he gave me when he saw us standing too close to each other! That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he was ‘just passing by’, though the maintenance department isn’t exactly next door to this lab.” 

They left Molly to deal with this new information, which was perhaps more comforting and in a good way distracting than Sherlock’s attempt at soothing her. 

Sherlock was the first to break the silence as they walked side by side. “It’s because of me,” he said bleakly.

“What is?”

“The way Rich treated her. The fact he had noticed her at all. I told him once she had been fancying me. He must have filed it in his mind. He sent me a message more than a week ago – ‘Come and play. Barts Hospital. Got something of yours that you might want back.’ That’s what he meant. Molly. He thought I’d care. But I hadn’t understood then, I didn’t play along.”

“He texted you?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched slightly. “He texted me a lot. First, he was suggesting we meet in neutral territory and discuss things. Solve our problem. He couldn’t cope with an unfinished melody, I guess. Then… Well, you can look for yourself if you want to.” He took the phone out of his pocket, handed it out to John. And there it was. A series of texts, mostly short but very _rich_ in content. ‘You need me, or you’re nothing’ was the most innocent of them. The others were mostly promises to skin Sherlock or to burn the heart out of him. Very descriptive. Ridiculous and scary at the same time.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was trying to unhinge you? That would have been enough to charge him. These are open threats.”

“What if I told you – and declined to do anything about it? What would you do then?”

Something violent, that’s for sure. Who was Sherlock protecting? Rich from being assaulted again – or John from doing something irretrievably stupid? John rubbed his forehead, “You probably should have told Lestrade about it all, at once.”

“Probably. Bit awkward, this.”

They were silent again for a while, then Sherlock blurted out in irritation, “I don’t get it. He wanted my attention, alright. He could have flirted with Molly, he could have seduced her. But why beat her? She hasn’t done anything wrong, she’s not like me. That’s insane.”

“You’re just getting that now,” John grumbled. “What are we going to do, anyway?”

“The usual stuff. Ask smart questions, get stupid answers, think about what comes out of it. Let’s go.”

John sighed and trudged after Sherlock, absolutely convinced that they were heading for big trouble.

The whole TV crew was still gathered in the courtyard, around the fountain. Among the nervously chatting people, John saw a familiar face. It was Ms Riley, that ginger-haired girl who had come to gather Richard’s belongings from Sherlock’s flat. Brook’s publicist, or press agent, or secretary, whatever. She noticed them too, and John didn’t like her piercing stare at all.

***

Richard Brook must have been a strange person who provoked mixed emotions. He was clearly a man who had enemies – but he had fans as well. The girls of the make-up team seemed to adore and hate him at the same time, the latter mostly because he totally ignored them, the haughty bastard. The cameraman, one Seb Moran, admitted Brook was a talented actor, but confessed that it had been an absolute nightmare shooting him. Brook was almost always disappointed with the results, believed the picture had been spoilt on purpose – a damn conspiracy nutter! – and demanded another take. (The next instant after saying all this, the man went pale and mumbled that of course he meant “shooting” in a nice professional way.) The director’s first impression of Brook was most favourable, but he ended up regretting his decision to invite Brook to take part in his movie – because Richard, being a sort of celebrity, behaved with matching extravagancy and waywardness, with no regards to others.

Everyone pretended they were upset with Brook’s death, though. Nobody wants be involved in a criminal investigation as a suspect. Not much fun in that.

“I'm sensing a pattern here,” John said at last. “If we’re going to count all the people who theoretically wanted him dead, we’ll be preoccupied the whole week. Or month, most likely. That must be quite a large field.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock replied absently, stroking his upper lip with his index finger, then actually paid attention to John. “Perhaps you are right. We’re approaching the problem from the wrong end. It’s not the question of who did this. The question is – how. How did the murderer get out without moving the body from the door?”

“It could be Chris,” John suggested helpfully. “The maintenance guy. He could have moved the body – and then say he did it when coming onto the roof, and not when going out. If he likes Molly, good chances he got furious after what Rich had done to her.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but he wasn’t alone when the body was discovered. The cameraman accompanied him. You should have listened to Lestrade.”

“They could have been partners in crime, couldn’t they? It’s either that, or Richard committed suicide and somehow disposed of the weapon himself.” Sherlock stared at him, and John added hurriedly, “Which is of course a bad joke. Because it’s not actually possible for the victim to have done it. I didn’t mean it literally.”

“I need to check something out, come on,” Sherlock said out of place, ignoring the next stunt man put at his disposal for brief interrogation, and the next moment John had to hurry along to catch up with him. They hadn’t talked to Ms Riley yet, and John was immensely glad about it. It gave him chills when he saw her there, in the courtyard, watching them with an unfriendly gaze and tapping at her palm with a pair of elegant summer gloves as if she were dreaming to crush them like disgusting insects. God knows what she must be thinking, what Rich must have told her. From Ms Riley’s point of view, they were surely at the top of the suspect list.

The small area between the hospital buildings was shady and empty of anything worth noticing. Sherlock looked up at the edge of the roof where Brook had been killed, then gazed at the pavement under his feet. John wondered what Sherlock could be looking for. There was nothing to look at, strictly speaking.

“I need to see the roof again,” Sherlock said. “It can’t be that I was wrong.”

They had to resort to Lestrade’s help, because this time the door to the roof was locked (a teensy bit belatedly, as Sherlock tartly remarked) and no one would give them the keys. Lestrade had some news by now. He had Brook’s phone checked, and it turned out that Brook’s assumption he had someone after him was justified. It was not only Sherlock who had been receiving threats. Brook had had his own share of them too, but they were more vague. Photos. Someone had been sending Richard his own pictures taken in public places. It looked like a message – “I’m following you wherever you are”. The only text that accompanied one of these snapshots, sent two days ago, read, “I’m sure the situation is quite clear to you. You only can escape in hell.”

That was not all of it, Lestrade said. According to the rumors, for almost a month, Brook had been temporarily staying at his press agent’s house, looking for a flat rental, but when he finally found a suitable flat and moved out, the next day, his door had been vandalized, graffited. Someone had painted the letters UOM with an aerosol on it.

“U – could be ‘you’. Ou – ‘owe’, perhaps?” John guessed. “But what does the letter M mean? Brook’s real name, Moriarty? Why would someone tell Brook he owes something to himself?”

“Looks more like ‘You owe me’,” Sherlock said pensively. “Which makes more sense but doesn’t help us to solve this case in the slightest.”

“So someone has been bullying him, demanding that he would pay back a debt?” Lestrade summed up.

Sherlock scowled. “Why not just catch him by surprise in a dark alley and kindly remind him of his obligations if it were money they needed from him? No, it’s something more devious than sending bouncers to make him pay. Someone wanted him scared out of his wits.”

“Well, looks like they succeeded,” Lestrade sighed. “The director says the gun could actually be Brook’s. The man was really frightened. He mentioned once that he needed to protect himself, that he needed weapons, or a bodyguard. So… The murderer had ripped something out of Brook’s hand, you said. It could be that Brook was fighting his assailant, the latter took hold of his gun and – boom.”

“Boom indeed,” Sherlock murmured. Just like the first time on the roof, he was looking down the side of the building as if fascinated by the height. Suddenly, he pointed down, agitated, “Look!” Next to the building, a truck with demolition waste stopped before turning into the main street. “How often are these trucks passing by here?”

“Pretty often, I guess,” Lestrade responded, staring down too. “The refit, remember?”

“Where do they take the rubbish?”

“No idea. Why?”

“You’ll find the gun among it, Inspector. Probably with a string and a weight attached to it.”

Both John and Lestrade eyed him incredulously, and he expanded on his thought, impatience in his voice. “Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be true. The murderer couldn’t escape from the roof without moving the body away from the door. Still, he somehow had managed to vanish from the crime scene. A dilemma, huh? Only if we presume there _had been_ a murderer. On the other side, how could it _not_ be a murder, since there’s no trace of the murder weapon? The only clues we have – that mark on Richard’s hand and the chip on the ledge, right opposite his body. Something had been whisked out of his hand with force, hit the ledge – and disappeared beyond it. This “something” must have landed near the building, but since there’s nothing on the ground, we can only assume it ended up in one of the trucks that stop there frequently. And what could this “something” be if not the gun?”

Warily, John wondered if Lestrade had noticed Sherlock had said “Richard”, not “Brook” – and only then caught the meaning of Sherlock’s words. “You’re saying it’s a suicide?”

“A very weird one, if so,” Lestrade frowned. “Why would he do that?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “We had suicides that turned out to be murders. Why can’t we have a murder that turns out to be a suicide? I’ll come with an explanation, given time. Now, it’s more urgent to support my theory with evidence. When you find the gun, text me. I’m going home.”

“What about the pictures?” Lestrade called after him. “Someone _was_ following Brook.”

Sherlock paused in the doorframe, “Could be one of the reasons to commit suicide. Blackmail. Threats. Constant pressure. You want me to prove it, yes? And I will. I shall not disappoint you. But meanwhile – look for the gun.”

***

They barely exchanged a few words before they got into a cab hailed in West Smithfield square. Sherlock looked restless, but not in a way he usually was after coming up with an extravagant theory. Concerned, not excited. At last, he muttered to himself, “No. This is too easy, this is too easy. Something’s wrong.”

“Maybe it feels strange because – what kind of man would want to present his suicide as murder, and leave clues at the same time?” John burst out. These thoughts bothered him a lot. “No one saw these clues but you, yeah, no one paid attention to them. But if not for the truck, the gun would have hit the ground and just lie there until someone found it, with a weight attached. Which would be very suspicious. So what was the point? Why drop the gun from the roof, why not leave it there?”

“No one saw them but me…” Sherlock repeated staring into the side window. “And it was me who declared it had been a suicide…”

“What are you implying?”

“He knew the police would contact me. If not for investigation, it would be because of the messages he had been sending me. Surely they would check not only the received but the sent ones too, sooner or later. Or, because I was acquainted with Molly, the main suspect. Anyway, I’d end up investigating the matter. The clues had been left for _me_ to see them.”

“Why? What for?”

“It’s a game, John. For him and me. For us.”

Well, very in character for Rich, John thought. Even in his death, he only wanted to cause trouble. But what exactly was his plan? What goal was worth a suicide?

“Any idea what this game is?”

Sherlock said nothing, distant and sullen, a small frown between his brows. Things weren’t going well. It was a bad sign that he wasn’t explaining his line of reasoning in detail as he usually did, though he surely had something on his mind that troubled him. It was a bad sign that he didn’t say anything about Richard’s death in itself. His reaction was so flat, so suppressed... Except for the first moment when he saw Richard’s body and clutched at John’s sleeve.


	5. Chapter 5

In their flat the curtains were still shut. John pulled them open, raising single specks of dust to whirl from the folds of the dark, heavy fabric. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to take the crumpled bed linen off the sofa before rushing to Barts. Now, he just kneaded it into a big lump, together with the blanket, pushed it nearer to the armrest and stretched himself, his bare feet resting upon it. He was hugging a worn out pillow, the one with the Union Jack on it, holding it so tight against his chest as if he was intending to strangle it. For a while, John didn’t dare to disturb him. He tried to occupy himself with something practical – if not helpful in the current situation. He washed the dishes. He made an attempt at cleaning out the fridge contents, straightened things up in the kitchen drawers. But all the time he was thinking of Sherlock lying there on the sofa, alone. For a few hours, Sherlock was almost his normal self. Energetic, absorbed into action. Now he was wrapping himself into a cocoon of listless depression again.

Finally, John couldn’t bear this silence anymore and hesitantly migrated back into the living-room.

“Look. If you’d want to talk…” he began awkwardly.

“And say what?” Sherlock interrupted him, with a brow quirked sarcastically. “That I’m very much relieved to see Richard dead? Or that I’m sorry about his tragic demise? I’ll tell you – it’s neither. You should know me by now, I’m not much into the caring lark. If you are really desperate to find out what I feel – I’ll make it clear to you. Absolutely nothing. Happy now?”

John didn’t look away. “Er. No, not exactly. I’m not relieved or sorry either. I’m worried, though.”

Sherlock’s gaze faltered first. Diverted from John, travelled up the wall. “You shouldn’t worry. You’ll be fine. I’ll keep you out of this.”

“Not about me. I’m worried about you.”

Sherlock continued to study the imperfections of the ceiling, his head on the sofa armrest. At last, John’s patience was rewarded with a brief answer, “I’m perfectly okay.”

“If you say so. But you won’t be when Lestrade finally learns you concealed information from him. About you and Rich. It’s only a matter of time before somebody tells him.”

“Well, isn’t it good – to give yourself some time to think in peace and quiet?” He underlined the last words with his voice, rather crossly.

“Sherlock, you should take the situation seriously. I’m not sure you do. Concealing information… it looks suspicious.”

“You’re worried there’s something to suspect?”

“No, of course not. I know it’s just because... it must be difficult for you to talk about Rich… You might not admit it, but seeing him there on the roof must have been a shock for you. So perhaps you’re perceiving some facts in a slightly twisted way...”

“I’m not in shock,” Sherlock snapped. “My intellectual abilities are not impaired, I assure you – if that’s what you are implying. You need proof? Alright.” He sat up swiftly, rubbed both hands through his curls. “All these people I questioned. Everyone has little secrets. Two adulteries. One drug addiction. And lots of frustration, envy, and ambitions. Take that cameraman, for instance. A typical mess of all three. Those tired bloodshot eyes – it could be a night recording, but he said he had no projects other than this movie – also could be just a night at a club, but did you see his shoes? Really expensive. Not a match with his casual humble outfit. He came home in the morning to take a shower and to change his clothes – but didn’t bother to pick up other shoes, or he’s only got one pair. They’re no good on a dance floor, they’re good to make an impression he’s wealthy. Just an impression – because he’s not. You should only see his jumper with that hideous pattern – cheap, practical, not fancy in the slightest. He doesn’t _want_ to look respectable. He needs to. Work, then. Not entertainment. Though he had been in a club, actually, and a posh one – its faded stamp on his hand, it was almost washed off but still visible. A TV veteran spends a night at a party with a prosperous lot he loathes deeply. Wants to impress them. I’d say he’s raising funds for his own project, looks for sponsors, makes acquaintances. Not very successfully, judging by…”

“Sherlock… Sherlock, slow down,” John begged. Information overdose delivered on high speeds didn’t confuse him anymore, he was probably immune to it by now, but there was no need for this show-off. “Why discuss all these people, they do not count. It doesn’t matter if the cameraman wants another source of income besides his salary, it doesn’t matter who’s sleeping with who. I’d suggest you concentrate on something more important, Sherlock. I mean the suicide theory. You said you’d provide Lestrade with an explanation – fine, the sooner the case is closed, the better. Your connection with Rich won’t be an issue then. I don’t see why Rich would do that – but maybe you do. To me, Rich didn’t seem to be suicidal. More likely – a man who would cause harm to someone else.”

Sherlock eyed him narrowly. “It’s possible to wind up a non-suicidal type of a person quite efficiently if you know his weaknesses, don’t you agree? Supposing there was someone who had researched him pretty well… It’s not that he was completely satisfied with his life. He was well-known in certain circles, but that’s all. No world fame. Not exactly West End roles. He thought that nobody took him seriously after all this time on kids’ TV. That he could have done better if he’d started his career differently. He considered maybe turning to directing. Or becoming a producer. He was good at pulling the strings, making people do what he said.”

“Lack of world fame hardly counts as a reason to kill yourself. And these plans of changing his life and career – it sounds rather optimistic, which is not good since we have a suicide theory to support. It seems we haven’t got any proof that he intended…”

Sherlock’s phone beeped, interrupting John mid-sentence, and Sherlock jumped up, impatient to see the message.

“They found the gun.” John’s remark was more of an assertion than a question.

“Of course they did,” Sherlock murmured, concentrated on the screen. “And the string, and the weight too. A very unusual one. A laptop. The cord was attached to the security lock.”

John blinked. “Why use his laptop as a weight? What for?” The next thought that caught him was like a punch in the guts – “If it’s his laptop… there might be my fingerprints on it. When his agent – or whatever she is – came here for his belongings, I handed it out to her. And your fingerprints… Oh hell. Surely there are yours too, you probably borrowed his laptop like you borrowed mine…”

There was a pause as Sherlock sat back on the sofa.

“Just once,” he said flatly. Too flatly.

Oh, John thought. Oh Sherlock.

On an impulse, he sat down on the sofa too, the leather cushion squeaking in protest, and did something he didn’t dare to do all this time – drew his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, in a silent suggestion of comfort. He was prepared to be shrugged off ( _Sentiment! Huh!_ ), but Sherlock just went still and tense for a moment, then his hands tentatively moved to John’s back. For quite a while, they were just sitting like that. Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of John’s shirt and pulled him so close that it almost hurt. John’s hand moved between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, drawing small circles in a soothing monotonous way.

“It will be alright,” Sherlock whispered, his breathing warm and ticklish on John’s neck. His lips were brushing John’s skin, and that was… good, but dangerously so. Now that Sherlock was so close, John could barely hide his longing to touch him, to feel him, to slide both palms under his shirt, and it was shameful and inappropriate – to impose himself on someone who needed consolation and support…

But Sherlock didn’t let go as John tried to break the embrace gently. He tightened it instead and planted a quick kiss to the hollow of John’s throat – and paused, not looking up, waiting for the reaction. John only was able to let out a shaky breath, “Sh… Sherlock!”

Another kiss, this time open-mouthed, at the base of his collarbone. And another, higher up his neck. And another.

“Bad timing, I know,” Sherlock hummed into John’s ear, one hand slowly working on the buttons of John’s shirt, the other holding him. “Just this once, John… Could you forget what’s appropriate?”

He nuzzled John’s earlobe, sucked it, added a hint of teeth… His hands slid up and down John’s thighs, touched his crotch… Then they were both tugging at clothes, unclasping belts, clumsily but determinately. Sherlock yanked John’s shirt out of his jeans, pushed it down his arms and off, gasped and jerked his hips as John unzipped his trousers and reached into the open fly. It was all a bit messy, John’s heart pounding, breath hitching, an echo pulsing in his head – _bad timing, very bad timing_ … But the maddening rhythm set by their bodies somehow made this warning seem utterly unimportant.

In the frenzy that overcame them both, it didn’t take them long to climax. Forehead pressed to forehead, they were looking at each other, regaining their breaths, John’s hand still in Sherlock’s pants, his own jeans and boxers pulled down in a highly improper, obscene manner.

“Don’t you dare to say you’re sorry,” Sherlock told him, with menace in his voice, which was probably to hide an uncharacteristic note of uncertainty.

Alright, John thought fuzzily. “Shower?”

“Definitely.”

On their way to the bathroom they got rid of the rest of their clothes, but it was not like a passionate shower sex scene, it was more like they were long-time lovers. Feeling no shame with each other, no awkwardness, no need to be shy. Communicating through small kisses and brief caresses. Unable to part.

John would have thought that after what Sherlock had been through, he would be more edgy and tense, reluctant to let someone be so close to him. It seemed a bit wrong that all of a sudden, he was so desperately tender and hungry for touches, slightly apprehensive but eager for pleasure… John stopped himself at this strange thought. If Sherlock felt no discomfort about what was happening between them – wasn’t it great?

Under a hot spray of water, John was standing pressed behind him, every line of this body so familiar… Even after a month, some of the yellowish bruises and fading pink lines were still visible on Sherlock’s back, reluctant to leave his pale skin. _Never again_ , John told himself and softly kissed Sherlock between the shoulder blades. Never, never again. He wanted Sherlock to feel safe in the circle of his arms. And hoped he could somehow redeem the damage done to him. Show him he was loved. So much loved.

They fought over the towels, giggling stupidly, and used one to dry themselves and the other to wrap Sherlock into it. Even with a cloth slung low on his hips, Sherlock looked like a patrician. John could hardly say the same of himself, he didn’t even want to think what he looked like in his dark striped robe, with damp smoothened hair and bare feet. The important thing was, Sherlock didn’t seem to care. Stretched on the sofa in a lazy cat-like posture, he looked relaxed and contented. Sitting there beside him, John was immensely happy too, despite the nagging thought that they now had more important things to consider. Now he had the right to look at Sherlock not as a friend, not as a doctor – as a lover, and he made the best of it. The most interesting revelation so far was that the light dusting of hair on Sherlock’s chest wasn’t of the same colour as his curls – it was almost ginger, and of a more delicate texture. John reached a hand to touch it, then slid his palm lower, to the trail of hair below Sherlock’s navel – and Sherlock suddenly pulled him into an awkward hug, which led to a startled yelp and then to a new series of kisses, unhurried this time. At last, John forced himself to back off. Sherlock demanded, “Are you going to tell me we should proceed to serious matters instead of losing our precious time on silly snogging?”

“I guess we could afford to lose some more and have dinner. I’m hungry. What would you say?”

“I’m not, but you know what… If it was the end of the world – if this was the very last day – I would still have dinner with you.” And he was smiling. Genuinely smiling. Which had been a rare thing even before Rich had turned his life upside down. Was it Sherlock’s way of flirting? Bemused and grinning back on reflex, John was thinking of something to say in response, as the doorbell rang. Sherlock’s lips twitched, a smile turning into a grimace. “Too late.”

“It's not the end of the world, it’s probably Lestrade.”

“Oh yeah. Armageddon’s herald.”

Lestrade really looked somewhat like a part of the Armageddon paraphernalia, cold rage incarnate. His first words were, “What the hell do you think you are doing, Sherlock? Why didn’t you tell me you knew Brook?”

“Would you have let me join the investigation?” Sherlock specified, the lack of clothes not making him look less self-assured.

“Of course not!”

Sherlock made a face. “Why ask, then? You know the reason pretty well. And what does it matter anyway, that I knew him? If we still assume it was suicide.”

“In fact, we don’t,” Lestrade rapped out, his voice still uneven with indignation. “Brook emptied his account yesterday, there’s a considerable sum of money in his flat, a packed suitcase, and a false ID. Funny name, German. Like the fairy tales. It seems he was about to leave London, to disappear, hide from whomever was bullying him. But not to commit suicide. And another fact… We checked the fingerprints. There are only Brook’s on the gun. But there are none on the laptop. None at all.”

Thank god, was John’s first thought. Then he looked at Sherlock’s face ( _something’s wrong?_ ), and the realization dawned on him. If Richard had attached the weight himself – there should have been his fingerprints on it too.

Lestrade touched his forehead tiredly, like he had a headache, and pronounced, word for word, visibly trying to stay calm, “Sherlock, it makes everyone, everyone look at the matter from a different angle. You should have heard Donovan. You should have heard Anderson…”

“Oh, I can imagine their speeches in colourful detail. _The murderer has the gun since it’s not at the crime scene – and we find it only thanks to the hint of our favourite psychopath._ That’s what they must be saying.”

“Yes. Well summarized. I can’t just ignore them. Sergeant Donovan said – the chip on the ledge, that was all he had. Our boys couldn’t have done it. Only he could have found that evidence. Really amazing. _Unbelievable_. And then we learn that you knew the victim – and chose to conceal this fact. More than that, it turns out you were in a relationship and had a scandalous break-up. Which included a fight...” he looked sideways at John. “Do you understand how it looks like? A scandal, two rivals fighting over you…”

“We were not rivals! If you only saw what he did to Sherlock...” John blurted out – and cut himself short because undoubtedly, this exclamation only had made things worse. It’s one thing to be considered a successful rival – and quite another, a man desperate for revenge.

To his surprise, Lestrade lowered his eyes, seemingly confused. “I did see. We were able to restore the contents of Brook’s laptop, it wasn’t badly damaged. There are… ahem… pictures from his photo archive. A considerable number.”

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked away. “John hasn’t seen them. No need to show him.”

“Sherlock? What pictures?”

“Of me. So that I would remember. So that I would behave. He said that maybe I was deleting what I didn’t like from my memory, maybe I needed reminders. Like a switch in the corner, or photos... He wanted to print them, in black and white, and hang them up upstairs.”

Lestrade obviously felt very uncomfortable when he said, “I don’t know whether it was some kind of recreational scolding, Sherlock, maybe it was, but it looks pretty much like you could have had reasons to… dislike Brook. There are also pictures of his current girlfriend, Ms Hooper… Compromising too, so to say. And it looks like he was blackmailing her. She doesn’t admit it, but there’s an email sent from his account, containing these photos and a request at a meeting, to discuss things over. We’re checking her alibi now, but if it is confirmed – and I have little doubt about it, good for her that she is on friendly terms with her neighbours – you’ll be the next person to be taken in for questioning. Sherlock… I don’t know what was going on between you and him, and if he was blackmailing you too somehow… but now it’s a murder case. It’s not your private affair anymore. You had a connection to the victim, and a suspicious one, to think of that. You were a frequent visitor at Barts. You knew where the gun was to be found… I’d look like a bloody idiot if I didn’t investigate this further. I don’t say I believe it’s you, there’s an indication Brook was followed not just by one man – the pictures of him in the streets had been taken from different angles, and sometimes from the nearby buildings too. Might have been teamwork. But Sherlock, you’ve been withholding evidence… Every officer you’ve ever made feel like a tit will be now willing to slap cuffs on you! Maybe you should come with me now and explain yourself, before I have to turn to you officially. John, I’d appreciate if you could accompany us too.”

“John has nothing to do with it,” Sherlock retorted. “He couldn’t have committed the murder – assuming it was murder. Technically impossible.”

“Oh, and why not? Sorry, John. Just for the protocol.”

“He spent the night in my bed, he couldn’t go out without me noticing it.”

For a moment, John cherished the look of surprise on Lestrade’s face, but the DI was able to overcome his embarrassment quickly. “So, you both have an alibi…” he began.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Since when you make assumptions so eagerly? I said – John had spent the night in my bed. I didn’t say I had been there too. Don’t you see the bed linen? I was sleeping on the sofa. John couldn’t steal past me unnoticed, though.”

“But _you_ could go out if you wanted to? That’s what you are saying?” Lestrade clarified.

“Exactly.”

Sherlock, you fool, John whined mentally. When will you learn not to show off?

Lestrade shook his head – having the same thought, perhaps. “Alright, Sherlock, no need for John’s testimony yet… But we’ll be needing yours. Will you come with me?” he asked. He still hoped they all could avoid trouble if they acted according to standard procedures. Sherlock was of another opinion, though.

“No, Inspector. The answer is no. No matter if it is suicide or murder – it is a game, Lestrade. And not one I’m willing to play. Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan. She must be happy now that the freak has compromised himself, finally.” He threw himself to the nearest chair – the towel flapped around his legs in an angry whirl – and pretended that Lestrade wasn’t there at all.

Lestrade sighed loudly, and gave John a troubled look.

“Maybe you’ll make him more compliant,” he said and went out without further useless attempts at persuading Sherlock to behave like a grown-up.

It was all going wrong – all as wrong as it could go… John stood at the window and watched Lestrade get into the police car. At least, he was still on their side, or he wouldn’t have bothered to come here unofficially.

“He’ll be back with a warrant,” Sherlock predicted from his chair, the voice ominous enough to make him a successful fortune-teller.

“Why didn’t you go with him? It would have been a questioning, not an arrest – and now you’re practically provoking Lestrade to take you into custody.”

It was a while before Sherlock responded. “Once they lock me up, they won’t let me out, John. I know it. I want some more time…”

“Okay. Why are we still here, then? We should be leaving for a place where the police won’t find us. I mean – until you come up with a decision how to clear your name. Now, get dressed…”

Sherlock showed no enthusiasm about emerging from the chair. 

John came close, patted his shoulder in what he thought was an encouraging way, and Sherlock suddenly leaned forward, wrapped his arms around John’s waist.

“Sherlock, you’re this far from being arrested,” John said patiently, struggling to stay calm and reasonable. “Are you going to wait until Lestrade arrives with a warrant, handcuffs you in front of Mrs Hudson, takes you down to the police car – and then you’ll try a daring escape? Don’t be ridiculous. We’re leaving _now_!”

“I don’t like handcuffs,” Sherlock informed John’s chest, face pressed into the folds of his robe.

“All the more reasons to take our departure at once.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out. So please, Sherlock… put your trousers on!”


	6. Chapter 6

For once, John felt more confident than Sherlock. Imperturbable. At least, he did while hurrying Sherlock to get dressed. He thought of packing a duffel bag for them both, with a change of clothes (god knows when they might be back), but then he changed his mind – if they took luggage, it meant they were on the run. If it seemed that they just went out, maybe no one would be looking for them for a while.

When they were in the street, most of John’s self-confidence evaporated very quickly. He didn’t really know what to do next. It was always Sherlock who dragged him somewhere, picked up the route and ran ahead, which left only one possibility – to run after him. Now it was John’s turn to be in control, and he was at a loss. Sherlock stood beside him, and they obviously needed to go somewhere, to leave before the whole Scotland Yard squad arrived to take Sherlock in. So John chose a familiar direction – the one he usually took when he “needed some air” – and headed towards the Regent’s Park. For now, it was necessary to get away from the flat, so this course was not worse than any other. No panic. One step after another. If they failed to have a proper dinner, they still could have snacks in the park and decide on their strategy.

They passed the park gates, walked to the pond, and when they were crossing the Clarence bridge, Sherlock’s hand sneaked into John’s palm, fingers lingering to interlace with his – an almost weightless touch. John glanced sideways at him, but Sherlock was looking forward, so John said nothing. It felt a bit strange (two grown-ups, holding hands), though not unpleasant (despite the horrified glare of an old man that passed them by), but John had to let go anyway, when he stopped at a small café to buy sandwiches and coffee. A drink in each hand, he proceeded further, to his favourite rose garden, and Sherlock followed him with the sandwiches. It looked very much like a low budget first date, John smiled to himself.

It was a bright sunny day, and the bench John liked best was free, as well as all other benches, with the exception of one, occupied by a couple of teenagers – a boy was lying with his head in his girlfriend’s lap, and they both seemed to pay little attention to the world around them.

Sherlock let himself to be persuaded to eat a half of a sandwich, John finished the rest of it, along with the other one. For a few minutes, they sat there drinking coffee and looking across the beds of blooming roses – peach, yellow, red.

Finally, John cleared his throat, “So. We must define the situation a little more clearly. Let’s stick to what we know. To the facts.”

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed eagerly. The paper coffee cup still in his hands, he pulled his legs up to the bench, lying down, and settled his head comfortably in John’s lap. Sherlock always moved so swiftly. This disconcerting graceful maneuver took John by surprise, and he just blinked in embarrassment, “Sherlock, we’re not here to lie in the sun…”

“But that’s what people do,” Sherlock protested. He meant the teenagers, no doubt.

“Perhaps they’ve got no crimes to solve. We’re not a couple of teens, Sherlock. Be serious.”

Sherlock sat up. Leaned to the bench backrest.

“Right,” John continued, glad that Sherlock spared him further dispute. “Okay. What have we got? We know there are these snapshots taken on the streets, probably taken not just by one person, and the messages, threats. Rich got scared, was about to leave, with a whole lot of money and a false ID. Could he do that? Completely change his identity?” Sherlock didn’t answer, sipping the rest of his coffee, so John went on, in the same business-like manner, “One more thing. Before he left, he tried to blackmail Molly, according to Lestrade. Why didn’t she tell us? About the photographs he’d taken?”

“She could have. You interrupted her.” Sherlock’s tone was accusing.

“Me?”

“With your consolations. You shouldn’t cut people short when they are speaking in distress. They might blunder out useful information. She was starting to say something inconsequential… I should have listened more attentively. Shouldn’t have let myself get engaged _emotionally_ ,” he almost spit the last word out. The empty paper cup cracked in his hands, deformed.

John fidgeted in his place uncomfortably, disturbed by Sherlock’s sudden change of mood. “Pressing case, is it?”

“They’re all pressing ‘til they’re solved.”

“I mean – when someone you know is involved, and when you’re framed as a suspect… I know it must be difficult, but we should get through it all. Imagine it’s just another problem to explain, alright? Purely theoretical. If it’s easier for you.”

Sherlock suddenly sniggered. “You, of all people… recommending me to keep myself distant, divorce myself from feelings… interesting, isn’t it? No, no, don’t say anything, you’re right. We have to be rational about it. I got carried away. But I’m fine, really, John. I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine,” John sighed. “So. Molly. Remember that inscription, graffiti, UOM… Could it be ‘You owe Molly’? Perhaps someone – that Chris guy, for instance – knew about the blackmail, about the compromising photographs and wanted Rich to give them back?” He frowned because something didn’t sink in. “The question is – why blackmail her, in the first place? I don’t get it. What exactly could Rich want from her? Not money. She’s not wealthy, is she? He was about to run away. So what would he need before he left London and disappeared completely? Was it something to do with you?”

“Disappeared completely...” Sherlock repeated, with a pensive look. “It takes more than a fake ID to escape without trace. Whoever was bullying him, it seemed to be a very persistent person. The one who wouldn’t stop looking for Richard when he vanished. That’s why the lady who worked in the morgue had to step in… Come on. Let’s pay another visit to Barts.”

***

John rather wouldn’t spend the cash they had on a taxi (because who knows how long it might take them to sort it all out with the police, and the fun of being fugitives has its expenses), but Sherlock had never been a thrifty type. So after a short argument they hailed a cab at the park corner. On their way to Barts, Sherlock was fiddling with his phone.

“Whom are you texting?”

Sherlock kept typing. “Lestrade. I need to see the surveillance photographs with my own eyes. At least some of them. If there are any pictures taken around Barts, they will do. Though the whole set – or a representative selection – would be much better. Someone has been documenting Richard’s last days of life – a helpful source of information, why not use the data. If we’re lucky, we’ll see everything he’s been up to.”

“You think Lestrade will send them to you, that easy? To a suspect?”

“Lestrade may be the only one who’s genuinely interested in clearing my name. An amateur detective given access to all sorts of classified information, and now he’s a suspect on a case… Too bad for his career. So why not take a risk? What’s there to lose? Besides, he needs something to occupy himself with while his sniffer dogs are searching our flat and arguing with Mrs Hudson about the legitimacy of their warrant. Hope they don’t mess up my sock index.”

John shook his head with doubt. Lestrade didn’t look like a risk taker. On the other hand, working with Sherlock was always somewhat risky and unsafe, like playing at high stakes. If Lestrade could handle that (and was willing to), perhaps John underestimated his gambler qualities.

They caught Molly Hooper walking out of the lab, pulling her coat on. Sherlock simply put his hands onto her shoulders and turned her back the way she just came.

“I’ve got a lunch… appointment,” Molly objected, exactly in the same protesting tone as Sherlock when he had said “But that’s what people do” some time ago.

“Cancel it,” Sherlock recommended her. “Or say you’ll be late. Chris will wait for you. We have an important matter to discuss. Photographs. Blackmail. And what was after that.”

Molly cringed – and let Sherlock lead her back to the darkened lab. There was a moment of awkward silence as Sherlock closed the door behind them and switched on the light.

“ ‘m sorry,” Molly uttered at last, her gaze lowered. “I haven’t… I should have told you…”

“Molly,” he stepped closer, and she looked up at him, unhappy and frightened. “Molly… You didn’t need to, and you don’t have to now. But I ask you to.” He reached into his pocket, took his phone out. “I’ve always trusted you. So I suggest a fair trade – your secrets for mine. The things I’d prefer not to show anyone – in exchange for the things you don’t want to talk about.”

She looked at the screen. “What… what’s this?”

John caught only a glimpse of the image, a close-up – Sherlock’s face, contorted in agony, eyes squeezed shut.

“That’s one of the pictures Richard took of _me_ when we were… together, before he started dating you. The only one that I have,” Sherlock remarked. “Not very compromising, is it? Others were on his laptop, and the whole Scotland Yard must have seen them by now. Me. Weak. Broken.” His voice went wrong and trailed off, just for a second, but then he continued in a casual tone better suited for commenting on a family album, “It was either this or scarring when he wanted me to remember what he did to me – and why. I preferred photographs. Maybe that’s why he thought of them in your case.”

“What has he done to you?” Molly whispered, unable to look away from the picture.

“No permanent damage. Nothing that hadn’t healed in due course. I just want you to know that I understand how it feels when someone sees you... aching. And starts asking question when you’d want to forget it all. Wants details. Wants to know what really happened.”

“You can ask me,” she said after a pause, handing his phone back. “I don’t mind, you can ask me. What do you need?”

“They told you Richard was found dead, they told you it was murder – but you secretly thought it could be suicide, or accident, didn’t you? You said – “How could I know he would do this? What if it’s my fault”, and of course John assumed you were speaking about what Rich had done to you and hastened to assure you that you shouldn’t blame yourself. But we were past talking about that, we talked about his death. You thought he had reasons to kill himself and you had something to do with it?”

John wanted to interrupt him, to demand that he shouldn’t be saying such horrible things to a shocked girl, but Molly responded first, voice ringing strained. “He asked me to fake his suicide. I declined.”

“Just as I thought…” Sherlock stared at her keenly as if suddenly she became more interesting than she had been before. “Was it even possible? You wouldn’t be the only one to perform the basic checks, to identify him, to do the paperwork. The police would be called in. Lots of people needed to be involved – and where would you find willing participants?”

“You mean if I wanted to,” Molly let out a nervous laugh. “Rich was sure I could cope. He was so desperate to disappear, as soon as possible. He suggested that maybe I could find a body with a face a bit, sort of, bashed up… The DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep, so he said – ‘I bet you know the record-keeper’. But I thought – what happens if he shows the photographs to someone, what if he even posts them? Nobody really cares. I’m not a celebrity, I’ve got no reputation to protect. In fact, I’ve got no reputation at all. I mean I don’t like when colleagues talk behind my back, nobody does… but it will be only for a few days – and they’ll forget… they’ll be looking past me again… And the cat I’m living with surely won’t notice the scandal at all. Sometimes… alone – it’s what protects you… But if I did what Richard wanted of me, I would be forever trapped. Next, he’d tell me to steal the Crown Jewels, or break into the Bank of England – and how would I refuse, now that I’d broken the law? That would be a much more serious cause for blackmail. And I… I told him, ‘Oh just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort.’ How could I have known… How could I… that he actually would…”

“Molly. Everything they said – it’s all true. It wasn’t a suicide. He was murdered.”

“If he was…” she mumbled without much confidence, “If he really… They suspect, about blackmail. I guess they do. They don’t know what it was, but that sergeant… she asked me questions. Do they think… it’s me?”

“If it’s any consolation to you – no, they think it’s me.”

She eyed him in bewilderment.

“Don’t you want to ask if they are right? If I’m not everything that you think I am?”

“Of course they are wrong!” Molly declared with indignation. “They wouldn’t suspect anything if it were you.”

Sherlock took it as a compliment – he almost flushed, pleased with her words. Perhaps Molly didn’t mean it as praise, but she’s been around Sherlock for so long that she must have absorbed his logic to some degree. She was right. They certainly wouldn’t.

Sherlock chose not to develop this theme, though, and asked, “How was Rich planning to do it? Or, more exactly – _where_?”

“Somewhere in the vicinity. Close to the morgue but aside from the crowds, with no accidental passers by. He mentioned the roof, actually. The shooting spot. He was supposed to be there – so everyone would have no doubts it was _his_ body lying there. But then he thought it could be, um, problematic to get a corpse up the stairs.”

“Sure, that’s a difficulty,” Sherlock remarked – and stared into space, perhaps imagining the ways to complete the said task.

“Any idea what – or whom – Richard was running from?” John intervened meanwhile.

Molly shook her head. “No. But it must have been something really scary. He was totally paranoid. Looked the whole lab over before talking to me. Almost jumped up when the lab phone rang.”

Sherlock seemed to recover from his reverie. “There’s another fact… Lestrade said Rich had a considerable sum of money at his place, probably sufficient for his escape plans. He was not a well-off person, though. He had a habit of spending every pound he was earning – all those Westwood suits, Spencer Hart shirts – a long expenditure list. Rich couldn’t even afford a decent hotel once he was kicked out…” he glanced sideways at John. “He wouldn’t stay in an indecent one, so he had to live at his agent’s place for a while until he received an advance for his current project – and found a suitable flat for rent. Still, after he emptied his account, he turned out to be in possession of a pretty amount of cash.”

“Maybe he had some additional income, from his project with Seb Moran,” Molly suggested, perceptibly more relaxed as the conversation turned away from personal issues.

“Did he really,” Sherlock regarded her, his glance thoughtful. “Mr Moran hasn’t mentioned they’ve been working on a side project. It would seem they were not particularly fond of each other.”

“They weren’t exactly _working_ together. Sebastian was the one to do the work. Rich was just… a recognizable face. You know how it goes. Seb was looking for sponsorship to do a documentary. If he had someone more or less familiar to the public among his crew, as the storyteller, he was more likely to see the checks roll in. As far as I know, they were not quite successful at it.”

Sherlock was vain enough to give John a “just-as-I-told-you” look before asking, “What kind of doc is it?”

“Something about street culture. You’d better talk to Chris about it, not me. They’ve been spending time together with Sebastian since the shooting at Barts has started.”

“Is it even relevant?” John asked, unsure if they were not moving away from the main subject.

“Might be,” Sherlock confirmed, looking for something on his phone. “The fundraising business has no success, Mr Moran continues to beg money off people, but Rich seems to have gained some profits out of the whole affair… Perhaps there will be no need to disturb Chris, though. Sometimes it’s easier to Google a man than to question someone about him. Everything is on the Web nowadays. Look what we’ve got… Mr Moran even has a site. _A known cameraman and doc-maker…_ Well, that’s a mild exaggeration. _Documentaries on abandoned houses in London_ … Who would watch a film about empty houses? _…and on tiger hunt_ … More promising, but no, not exactly what we’re looking for. Now, here. _‘It has long been my ambition to produce a TV series on urban street culture, especially the homeless graffiti artists. We have enough footage to form the basis of at least three episodes. Award winning actor Richard Brook is to become the narrator. At present I am looking for sponsors to help fund the project and will give full details to interested parties.’_ And here are his contacts details. How very convenient. I guess he’ll be willing to meet an interested party – by which I mean us – if we leave him a message.” Having sent a brief text, he tucked his phone away and added dramatically, “What a lunatic I must be, needing to interrogate the same person twice… and now that we’ve got no police support… It was premature of me to state that my intellectual abilities were not impaired.”

“Everyone has bad days,” John assured him – and received a familiar snort in response.

As they took themselves off, Sherlock stopped at the door and looked back. “Molly, you’ve been most helpful. One more question if you permit. I’m just curious… You haven’t said it straight out – could you really do that, make someone disappear?”

She smiled at him shyly. “Maybe. Maybe I could. But not for Richard. The only thing that matters to me is my work. It is my life. I wouldn’t risk my life for _him_.”


	7. Chapter 7

Seb Moran called them back almost immediately, ready to meet at any place, any time. John felt a bit awkward lying about the purpose of their meeting. (“It’s not cheating,” Sherlock consoled him. “We _are_ going to talk about his project.”) There was one thing, though, that bothered John much more than this. “Why do you still keep this photograph on your phone?”

Sherlock waved a hand lightly, “Turned out handy, huh? Did the trick. Molly became much more talkative after seeing it.”

“That’s not what I was asking.”

Instead of answering, Sherlock said with a thoughtful scowl, “The nervous Mr Moran… One can imagine how steamed up he could get, after struggling hard for the funding, if Rich cheated on him. What would he do to recover what was his? Threats – possibly. The tag on Richard’s door, UOM – yes, most likely he’s to blame, or one of his graffiti artists. “You owe Moran”. But wouldn’t it be too stupid – to kill someone who owes you money? No chance of getting it back. Well, it could be an assault in blind rage if they had a quarrel – but not a planned murder, I don’t think so.”

“So we’re no closer to solving our problem.”

“Apparently not.”

“What’s the use of talking to this cameraman again if he’s not the one we’re looking for?”

“We’re gathering the relevant data. All the tiny bits. Everything’s important.”

John considered this explanation but found it unsatisfying. He wanted to get this case finished as soon as possible. If not to catch the murderer, than at least to put Sherlock beyond suspicion. Out of police jurisdiction. If they don’t find the murderer soon, perhaps it will be necessary to appeal to an authority who’d sort things out…

“What about Mycroft?” he suggested cautiously. “He could help us.”

“A big family reconciliation? Now’s not really the moment. Besides, the situation is not that hopeless.”

“Yeah?” John wasn’t so certain about it.

Sherlock shrugged. “Enough information to process. Molly refused to help Rich with his fake suicide, still he ended up exactly on the same spot where he planned to organize it. That sets you thinking, doesn’t it?”

John was about to assure him that no, it doesn’t – and could he be so kind as to abstain from doing a “we both know what’s really going on here” face again? – but before he could say something, Sherlock’s phone let out a bee-like buzz. And Sherlock’s eyes brightened with delight as he saw the message. “Finally. Now we also have the surveillance pictures at our disposal. Well, some of them. It’s promising.”

“Lestrade?” John almost gaped in disbelief.

“Took him long enough to weigh all the pros and cons,” Sherlock chided, scrolling through the images. “Oh. Excellent.”

“Got something?”

Sherlock didn’t respond right away. They were standing at the hospital’s main entrance on Giltspur Street, and Sherlock’s gaze flicked across the opposite houses. Then he rapidly crossed the street – John had to scurry after him, a few steps behind – and looked up at the hospital buildings.

“How quaint you’ve mentioned…” he murmured.

“What?”

“Never mind. Just a thought.”

***

It was an unpleasant surprise for Mr Moran, to meet them again. Sherlock took advantage of his confusion before he could gather that if they still were teamed up with the police, they wouldn’t have needed to lure him to a dingy cafe using a false pretext.

“I have nothing to do with his death, I swear, you have to believe me!” the unlucky doc-maker appealed for them in desperation, nervously rocking in the plastic chair. “The graffiti – it was a mistake, a misunderstanding! He said he’d return what he’d taken for himself…”

“He wouldn’t,” Sherlock cut in. “He was about to vanish with a false ID.”

Moran stared at him for a moment. “Bastard,” he said, with genuine feeling.

John couldn’t but agree. “Why work with him, in first place?” he asked. “You didn’t like him, did you?”

“Why? Money,” Moran sighed. “We had one episode in the can, and miles of footage for the other two, but no funding, and no-one to promote our project. I needed a person... to do the marketing, so to say. Rich was so good at talking people into believing what he said, with that charming smile of his – ‘I’m on kids’ TV. I’m the storyteller'.” Moran obviously mimicked Richard’s bland manner. “Isn’t it great to be working with a celebrity,” he added bitterly. “I thought it would be a win-win for both of us. But about a week ago, Rich started behaving… well, strangely. He twitched at each and every phone call. Stayed away from the windows. He was obsessed with the idea that someone was after him. And the next thing I find out – all the money in our project account has been withdrawn... Of course I got a little pissed off…”

“Just a little?” Sherlock threw him a disbelieving look. “Enough to vandalize his door.”

“Yes, yes, but... not enough to do something… utterly violent. We had a talk after that,” he coughed, flustered. “A man-to-man talk, and maybe I was rude, yes, but surely you’d be too in my place! Anyway, Kitty – his agent – was present, so even if things got heated up, I wouldn’t… It was merely a discussion, not a fight. He said he’d had hard times and just borrowed the money and had every intention to paying me back, with interest. I thought we were agreed. I thought it’d be alright. Kitty suggested partially compensating me for my losses until he repaid me… Should have agreed,” he looked at a serviette he was unconsciously crumpling in his hands and threw the shapeless lump on the table. “But who could have known! It was an ordinary shooting day, we had only one scene to do, everything was fine... seemed to be fine…”

“Hang on,” John caught on Moran’s words with a short delay, “so you’re stating that he was bullied by someone else, before he took your money, before you tagged his door? Was it you who took pictures of him wherever he went?”

“Eh? No, nothing like that, no. I mean – pictures – I know nothing ‘bout them. We came to an almost civilized agreement, I was even sorry about the graffiti. But since you’ve mentioned bullying… yeah, I believe now there has been one, and it’s been serious. I understand how it must look like, the door and all that… me angry with him… but it wasn’t me who frightened Rich. Really, look at me,” he smirked unhappily, with a hint of self-abasement. “I don’t look very frightening. Richard… he was a cold-blooded son of a bitch. There must have been someone more scary than a frustrated film-maker to make him that nervous just in a few days.”

“I know,” Sherlock assured him, to John’s surprise. “Okay. Tell me this. Which one of you stayed on the roof after you’d found the body – you, or was it Chris? Who called the police? Chris, I presume?”

Moran palpably braked at the sudden change of subject. “Chris, yes. Used the nearest lab phone. But I went downstairs with him, too. To stay there, alone… I couldn’t… I wouldn’t…”

“Had he locked the door?”

“We hadn’t even thought of that, both a bit shaken, I guess. Smeared blood, and his face… But we went back, immediately after the call – I said the other members of our team would be coming soon and what if they saw him… Nobody went in, fortunately, it was pure luck that the crew started gathering just a quarter of an hour later or so.”

“Noticed anything peculiar?”

Moran managed a tense smile. “Besides Richard’s dead body? No… I don’t think so. They were all shocked, the girls especially – you saw them – but who wouldn’t be. Kitty tried to hold herself together, but it must have been quite a blow for her, to come to the shooting and learn Richard was murdered. It was a blow for all of us really.”

Unexpectedly, Sherlock rounded off the questioning after that. It was only when they were in the street, though, that John asked, “Is that it?”

“Is that what?”

“We just leave him be? I thought we’d gather more valuable information...”

“We’ve got almost all the data we need. I’ve been so sluggish in mind, unforgivably sluggish. The mystery was how the murderer got out past the body – there would have been no mystery at all if I were smart enough to ask the right question and not to work on an assumption that people would act appropriately in a situation like that. When they both rushed downstairs and left the door unlocked – anyone could walk in on the body, but anyone could go _out_ after that too. The murderer could have been on the roof all the time until the body was found. Hiding behind the bulkhead, or on a lower section of the roof…” He pondered for a few moments. 

“No hints to who he is, anyway,” John sighed.

“I wouldn’t say that. It was an ordinary shooting day, as Moran had pointed out. Nothing special. Just one scene on the roof. Not even an important one. What was the lead actor’s press agent doing there?”

“Hang on,” John interjected, “hang on, so you’re saying…”

“John. Think. No fingerprints on Richard’s laptop, all wiped off. But only Richard’s fingerprints on the gun. So the murderer was wearing gloves. But why wipe the laptop even when wearing gloves? Who would do that? Someone who knew there _would_ be his fingerprints on it already. Or rather, _her_ fingerprints. You mentioned you handed Richard’s laptop to Ms Riley when she came to gather his things. It’s unlikely he permitted someone else to touch his property, he seemed rather possessive about what was his. So mine fingerprints could be found on the laptop, or yours, or his assistant’s.”

Following Sherlock’s line of reasoning, John suddenly remembered a tiny detail, “Gloves. She had a pair of gloves. Ms Riley. You know, of that summer kind… She was tapping at her hand with them…”

Sherlock smiled at him, a predatory crooked grin.

“I guess we’ll have to talk to her after all.”

***

Ms Riley opened the door and stared at Sherlock with not quite hidden scorn.

“You’re him. Richard’s crush.”

“I’m me,” Sherlock assured her. “It would be polite to invite us in, Ms Riley.”

She huffed and stepped away to let them into her studio flat, still holding the door ajar as if she were hoping they’d leave in a minute. John’s gaze wandered across the room – too much furniture for such a small space, clearly bought in an attempt to make it seem cosy. Framed paintings on the wall opposite the fireplace formed an erratic pattern against the light coloured wallpaper… He noticed that Ms Riley was regarding them both with the same appraising look, “Finally – face to face. To what do I owe the displeasure of meeting you, Mr Holmes? From what I heard, I’d expect to see you in handcuffs by now.”

“Gossips are so deceptive sometimes,” Sherlock retorted. “From what _I_ heard, you must be in deep grief. You were so devoted to Richard. My condolences.”

She kept looking at him grimly, “Spare me your sarcasm.”

“No, no, I’m not sarcastic in the slightest. You _were_ devoted to him. You let him into your flat when he had no place to go. You suggested a way to settle his money problems. You were eager to help no matter what he had done… Not just a PR agent. You were his assistant, his fixer. His fan. So loyal, so passionately committed to him. There are two types of fans, you know. Type A – ‘Catch me before I kill again’. And type B – ‘Your bedroom’s just a taxi ride away’.”

“Guess which one I am.”

“Both.”

Ms Riley glared at him sharply.

“What sort of boss was he?” Sherlock went on, unimpressed. “Appreciative? I don’t think that’s the word I would use. But that never stopped fans from hoping and craving, did it? You kept working for him and doing dirty job for him, expecting he’d be grateful for your efforts. You’d even gather his suits and ties from the flat of his ex-lover, which must have been most disagreeable for you. Speaking of clothes… Where are the pretty gloves you were wearing today? I’m sure there are powder burns on them, which originally wasn’t a part their design.”

“That’s your brilliant theory,” she scoffed, after just a second of embarrassment. “Richard never appreciated me – so I shot him. Bravo. What a convenient explanation. Unprovable, though. Rich told me you were obsessed with criminal puzzles, up to the point of inventing ones for yourself. I see that’s an example of your overactive imagination. He also told me you wanted everything to be clever – but didn’t always manage to be clever yourself. Ordinary Sherlock. Naïve Sherlock. Rich has beaten you, he’s degraded you. And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. You gave in, you almost wanted it. And you thought it was love on his part. So maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you suppose you are.”

‘Not quite the topic of our conversation,” Sherlock said unflappably – but as John shot a quick glance at him, confused and worried, he saw a muscle in his cheek twitch. Ms Riley probably saw it too, for she smirked almost with triumph, “What did he see in you, I wonder.”

“The problem is – what didn’t he see in _you_?” Sherlock jibed back in a conversational tone, with an equally unpleasant smile. “You must have wondered. Why was he texting me after the break-up, constantly, why did he seduce the lab girl at Barts Hospital to grab my attention – when he had you by his side, his greatest admirer, his best partner? One of a kind; the one woman who matters? And recently, things got even worse… He moved out as soon as he could afford it. Moreover, he never bothered to share his plans with you – these plans including him leaving London, leaving you behind. His bags were packed. He was going away. When did you learn he was about to vanish? After the ugly scene with the robbed cameraman, I suppose? Rich had to tell you why he needed so much money.”

“And what happened then, in your opinion?”

“You told him you’d help him like you always did. To fake his death, just like he intended to. You told him he’d be safe. Maybe you persuaded him that Molly would cooperate. Maybe you even suggested the idea of presenting his fake death as a murder, not a suicide, and promised him that I’d be the main suspect if the laptop with my photographs turned up at the crime scene. Marring my reputation or getting me into prison – a nice revenge, wouldn’t it be? For both of you. For him – because he couldn’t have me, for you – because Richard was so fixed on me. Anyway, you were able to talk Richard into all this – you’re a press agent after all, you must have a good way with words. It was quite easy getting on the roof. All the doors were open. Pulling the trigger and disposing of Richard’s gun – that wasn’t tricky, either. It was after the murder that you panicked. You couldn’t force yourself to move the body that was blocking the door. You lingered for too long. Maybe looked for another way out. When the maintenance assistant came up together with the cameraman, you must have hidden behind the bulkhead. It was pure luck that they both rushed for the police at once, having left the door open. You simply walked out – and joined the crowd later as if you’d just arrived.”

Ms Riley was listening to him, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Finished?” she asked coldly when he stopped. “Now get out. Out, with all your psychotic theories. It’s your delirious fantasy, nothing more. I am certain that you have no proof. Your word – a suspect’s word – against mine.”

“Oh, Ms Riley, you shouldn’t be that certain about the lack of evidence, you really shouldn’t. You haven’t taken one important thing into account. The reason why Richard decided to disappear. The stakeout, utterly terrifying. Do you know why Rich had chosen exactly this place on the roof to fake his suicide? Rhetorical question. Of course you don’t – he hadn’t explained his plans in detail, I suppose. But it’s obvious, isn’t it. He wanted no witnesses. He was sure there would be no one on the rooftop at this hour. So were you. But knowing that he was followed, that someone was watching him wherever he went, what would he avoid, paranoid and ludicrously obsessive as he was? Open space. He chose a spot on the roof sheltered by the bulkhead. And why would he be so agoraphobic, you might ask me?” He paused as if encouraging Ms Riley to repeat this question, but she didn’t, so he explained anyway, “Because even if there’s no one around, there’s always a chance you’re under scrutiny. There are constant watchful eyes all over London. Following your every move…” He made a dramatic pause – and inquired, with polite interest, “Do you happen to know there are reportedly more street cameras per person in the United Kingdom than in any other country in the world?”

And suddenly another link in the chain of events came in place – almost with a loud click – in John’s mind. Richard under constant surveillance… Threats and photographs… Phone calls that made him flinch… And it all started approximately a week ago, right after Sherlock’s brother had learned of Richard’s unacceptable behaviour. Mycroft, the man who had a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. He could act like a total jerk sometimes but when he said he was concerned about Sherlock – he actually was concerned. Lestrade said the pictures of Richard on the streets had been taken from different angles, and sometimes from the nearby buildings too. It really was teamwork, in a sense. A CCTV stakeout, images taken with digital cameras wherever Richard went, phones ringing on his way until he picked up, a slimy anonymous voice telling him he would never escape – Mycroft could definitely do that, he could be terrifying when he wanted to.

That’s what Sherlock was looking for when they were standing at Barts Hospital. Surveillance cameras on the opposite buildings and nearby roofs.

“Richard considered that very place on the rooftop because it was a CCTV dead spot. He’s been there before, he must have taken a good look around,” Sherlock continued meanwhile. “Good for a real murder, as well as for a fake one. But if the murderer looked for another way out… If the murderer walked round the stairs bulkhead… or used the fire ladder and moved to the lower section of the roof... There would be evidence that this person had been on the roof at the time of Richard’s death, before the body was found. Hiding. Very suspicious, more than suspicious. Bit of a giveaway.”

“You’re bluffing,” Ms Riley said heavily. “Playing your games. If you think I’m going to admit… make a confession… just because you…”

Footsteps in the hall. Sherlock shook his head, “No, I think _you_ were playing a game. And this is just losing.”


	8. Chapter 8

***

She _did_ make a confession. Once it became clear that Sherlock wasn’t bluffing.

“I’ve been admiring him, supporting him,” she said. “I was alright with Richard’s fans, male and female. I was alright with the fact that he took me for granted, that he used me. But he stood me up. He was going to leave – without me. If he only pretended he cared for me, I’d carry on like I did before – sometimes a lie is preferable to the truth. I’d help him then. I’m smart, I’ve planned lots of things for him, why wouldn’t I mastermind his escape? He could trust me, totally. Yet he chose not to. Oh well.”

The room was full of people. Sherlock was talking to Lestrade, doing the explanations. John stood aside but kept his eyes fixed on him. Sooner or later, Sherlock would turn back and roll his eyes ( _Aren’t they all insufferable?_ ), and John was waiting for it so that he could make a face in acknowledgement ( _Yes, sure. Please just keep it simple and brief – and let’s go home. It’s been a long day_ ).

“So you’re back with him, then,” Sergeant Donovan said beside him. John hadn’t noticed her standing so close. “Haven’t seen you around for awhile. I thought you were wise enough to get over it – rushing after him whenever he called you. You’re just like her, in a way,” she nodded at Ms Riley, “running errands for a man who doesn’t appreciate it. Except that you’re a good person, and it’s really a shame you’re wasting your time on Sherlock Holmes.”

John sighed and told himself that he wouldn’t lash back at her, wouldn’t even deign to respond. Unfortunately, Sally interpreted the silence as an encouragement to continue. “He’ll break you – and he’ll leave you,” she said almost with pity. “He does that. I warned you to stay away from that guy, right from the start. But did you listen?”

 _Of course I didn’t_ , John thought. _Fortunately. Good for me that I’ve got my own mind to decide on important matters. Why would I listen to you? You’re not my friend._ He _is._ If Sherlock ever chose to leave, to fake his own death and disappear without a trace, that would probably be his version of kindness, for why should someone else deal with with the mess he’d made? There would be a hint of pride, too – Sherlock wouldn’t want to witness how the one who always thought him brilliant and invincible would maybe change his attitude after having seen that he could be weak, frightened, defeated, not coping… After having learnt that he was a fake, a failure. Not as amazing as he was supposed to be. Too painful for Sherlock, to lose the little amount of admiration and awe he had earned. Even if they turn into pity, not scorn… Besides, Sherlock could be under the impression that he _deserved_ to suffer on his own. Wasn’t it for these reasons that he didn’t call out for John when he was beaten, exhausted, tied up – behind the locked door John was knocking at. He’d rather bite his lips and then hide the bruises under long sleeves... He never begged for help or even sympathy.

But why explain all this to Sally.

“You don’t know him,” John said succinctly, with conclusiveness Sally didn’t seem to catch.

She made a noncommittal sound – a huff of amusement, “Well, perhaps there are aspects of his personality that are new to me. It turns out the freak enjoys some discipline in bed. I can’t say I’m surprised he’s queer, but _that_! Didn’t look like it, all arrogant!” She smirked so smugly, like she was glad to learn a secret about Sherlock – finally, a secret about the man who could deduce any private information about the others. John wanted to say – no, he was hurt, he needed help, and nobody paid attention, there was no one as clever as Sherlock himself to notice it… But Sherlock asked him not to tell anyone what really happened. _“They’ll be saying that I wasn’t able to defend myself. It’s not true, but that’s what they’ll be thinking.”_ And would she feel compassion for Sherlock, anyway?

“Well, maybe it took the right man to keep him on a leash and handle him like he deserved,” Sally went on reasoning. “They must have been quite a match, Brook and our psychopath.”

She didn’t bother to lower her voice. John was unnervingly aware that Sherlock might hear her any moment.

“He’s disappointed you,” he suddenly realized. “You wanted him to be the murderer. Just to prove you were right about him. Well – you were not. Get over it, will you? And maybe consider you could be wrong about some other things too? And also please…” he fought hard to keep a neutral intonation, “stop calling him freak, or psychopath – it sounds so childish, and you’re a police officer after all. Can you behave like a grown-up? I know he snaps at you too, but at least he’s not calling names.”

Sally shook her head, “Still so loyal. It’s heart-warming. But it’s you who doesn’t know him. He’ll do anything that he can to impress you, but he’s just playing with you mind. Wanna stay by his side and see for yourself what a psycho he can be? Well good luck with that.”

She didn’t sound like she really wished him luck, or was genuinely heart-warmed. That was her problem, though.

By the time they could leave, the sunny day had turned into a chilly evening, with a drizzle of rain. They had to walk to the main road before they managed to hail a cab. Sherlock pulled his collar up, shoved both hands in his pockets. When they finally got into a car, they were not quite soaked wet but close to it. John didn’t mind. They were going home. It was all that mattered.

“I said it would be alright, didn’t I?” Sherlock reminded him as the taxi started off.

John shook tiny droplets from his coat. “Lucky guess.”

Sherlock shot a grin at him – “I never guess.” – and turned away before John smiled back, in recognition of a shared memory. John wanted to reach out, to touch his hand, to intertwine their fingers like Sherlock had done in the park. But Sherlock was looking through the window, his gaze distant, a space between them.

“She upset you,” he remarked after some time.

“Mghm?”

“Sally. She upset you. You always make that look when you’re fighting irritation – purse your lips, or you start worrying the inside of your cheek with the tongue. And when you finally burst out, you flail a hand in front of you. Even if you keep your voice down, your gestures are most palpable.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Well, I had a wide experience of contemplating you in irritated mood. So. She talked about me. About the photographs. She wouldn’t be able to hold herself back. It really bothered you.”

“Yes.”

“Why do you care? I don’t understand – why would it upset you?”

“I don’t want people thinking that you’re...”

“That I am what? A bit of a weirdo? You must have got used to what people are saying about me. I don’t care what they think.”

And that’s why you asked me not to tell anyone what was between you and Rich, John wanted to say. But that would have been an inappropriate jab, so he didn’t respond at all.

It was pouring with rain when they got out of the cab. A surprise was awaiting them at their door – or more exactly, at the doors of Speedy’s cafe. Mycroft was standing there under the protection of his large black umbrella. Smoking a cigarette. He didn’t usually smoke.

“Am I supposed to say ‘thank you’?” Sherlock inquired, with a look of defiance rather than gratitude. “For the security footage, this is.”

Mycroft scowled. “I never inten... I never thought you’d be involved. Not like this.”

“Don’t be so worried, Mycroft. It was just another murder case. Cracked in a day. The only thing that’s still a mystery to me is why you decided to intervene.”

“I couldn’t leave the matter open, not after what he had done to you.”

“I knew what I had set myself up for, this time,” Sherlock said harshly and walked past him.

“Will you come in?” John suggested while Sherlock was rattling his keys.

Mycroft dropped the cigarette on the ground and treaded it out. “I’d rather not.”

He had a clear plastic wallet tucked under one arm. There was a sticker on it saying “Restricted access – confidential”.

“This – the file on Richard Brook?” John inquired.

“Closed forever.” Mycroft indulged in a smile, not exactly a pleasant one, but then he turned serious again. “What happened to Sherlock… I couldn’t prevent it when we were younger, I couldn’t prevent it now. Just like my brother, I can discover facts, but I cannot change them. I can only deal with the consequences.” He lowered his gaze for a moment, a small crease between his brows. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” That sounded like a genuine expression of regret, but then Mycroft proceed in his more usual ceremonial manner. “I also regret the injustice which I did you. I hope you don’t hold a grudge against me, John, for offering you a fee to keep Sherlock’s company. I’m glad that you are willingly determined to continue your association with him. You could be the making of my brother… I wish you luck.”

They said their goodbyes most politely, but John felt a pang of irritation. Why does even Sherlock’s brother finds it necessary to wish him luck – like he’s very much going to need it if he’s about to live with Sherlock again? Unlike Sally, Mycroft meant what he said, but there was the same intonation of slight skepticism behind his words. “You _could_ be the making of my brother – but we both know that it would only occur under highly auspicious circumstances...” 

Should he have told Mycroft that he _already_ found himself very fortunate to be together with Sherlock?

When John came up the stairs, Sherlock was sitting at the table, curls damp, the collar and sleeves of his shirt soggy, wet speckle patterns blotting his trousers almost up to his knees. He had kicked the shoes off, and his coat was lying in the leather armchair opposite him – a dark formless heap.

“You’d better change your clothes,” John said. “And hang your coat to dry. I’ll get us something to eat – will the pizza leftovers do? Or I could make toasts. Too tired for cooking, sorry, I’m asleep on my feet.”

He headed for the bathroom, and then went to pick up dry clothes for himself in the wardrobe. When he came back, clad only in another pair of jeans (why bother to be fully dressed in front of each other now – also, he found there was only one clean shirt left, he’d better save it for tomorrow), Sherlock had already changed into his grey pyjamas that he must have dug out of the lump of linen on the sofa. He’d put on his wrinkled t-shirt inside out, with the seams visible, like he did it in a hurry. Or maybe he was too exhausted to notice that. Time to rest after a trying day. Would Sherlock want to share the bed with him, John wondered…

Instead of asking that, he offered, “Tea? Or coffee? I’ll make a cuppa for you.”

“No need,” Sherlock replied from the sofa, with his usual brevity.

“Tea, then.”

The pizza, or what was left of it, looked a bit dried up but still fit for human consumption. John was about to ask if it was safe to put it into the microwave, but cut himself off. Sherlock hadn’t been doing any experiments in quite a while. The microwave had been neglected, as well as the blowtorch, the microscope, and other domestic implements, therefore it was boringly harmless, no doubt.

John came from the kitchen with a plate in one hand and two mugs balancing in the other. He successfully landed the said items on the coffee table in front of Sherlock and picked up a slice of pizza.

“Really, John, what’s all that for, I said I didn’t need anything,” Sherlock grimaced.

“Of course you do,” John objected indistinctly, his mouth full. “You only had a half of a sandwich hours ago. You’d be starving if I didn’t look after you.” Having dealt with his share if pizza, he leaned in to ruffle Sherlock’s hair and maybe peck him on the forehead fondly, but Sherlock flinched and moved away, out of reach, to the other corner of the sofa. John froze in place, taken aback. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

With his hands steepled under his chin, Sherlock glanced at John. “I presume it’s necessary to discuss – clarify – some matters. Before we get hopelessly muddled.”

“What matters?”

Sherlock dropped his hands to his knees, clutched at the fabric of his pyjama bottoms. “John… what happened… what we…” He breathed in and out sharply and finally enunciated a full sentence that made John’s heart grow cold, “You should know I’m okay with it being a one time thing.”

There was a moment of silence. A plummeting feeling swept through John like he was rapidly falling down, down, down.

“Or temporary,” Sherlock made a quick amendment – perhaps the expression on John’s face had shifted too noticeably. The correction didn’t seem to help, and Sherlock added with uncertainty, to make sure John understood him, “I’m okay with it too.”

“So that’s how you see it,” John began slowly. “We’ll be having sex from time to time, when it suits you, and maybe even hold hands occasionally. At other times – no, John, no signs of affection. What was it today, then? You just needed a distraction? And now you don’t?”

Sherlock looked at him uncomprehending. “Sexual activities are always a distraction, and it’s obvious I needed what we did as it was me who started it, but John…”

“No,” John broke in firmly, out of place. “You know what – it’s not – it’s not okay. A temporary deal. I can’t just turn myself on and off like a tap.” The last words came out not as calm as he intended them to sound, so he stopped. Histrionics was the last thing they needed now. Especially because everything was so obvious, he just failed to see it. John shook his head. “I’m… I’m sorry. I understand. I shouldn’t have said all this. Let it be a one-time thing, as you call it.”

“John…”

He could really understand it. Sherlock, not ready for a relationship after what he’d been through – who could blame him for that. He reacted on impulse, under stress, reaching for the comfort offered, and now that the circumstances were back to usual once again, he reevaluated the situation. Perfectly logical and unsurprising… It was John’s problem that he expected something more. Sherlock surely didn’t mean to hurt him, and now he looked so puzzled, so diffident after John’s outburst.

John sighed. He was still Sherlock’s friend, no matter what. He didn’t want to make Sherlock confused and unhappy, to force him into something he didn’t need, to hold him liable for the foolish dreams almost fulfilled – and so abruptly cancelled. But… at the moment, John just couldn’t pretend that he was alright.

“We’ll discuss it later,” he suggested, “if there’s anything to discuss, actually. Now I’m going to bed. I have a shift tomorrow.” Before Sherlock could say something to prolong the agonizing conversation (and that was his intention, apparently), he smiled wanly, “Good night then,” and left.

In his room – no, Sherlock’s room – he sank down onto the bed, Sherlock’s bed, not caring to undress, and wrapped himself in the duvet, Sherlock’s too. He could deal with it, he thought. Not now, but he could. Pretend that nothing had happened. He did it once, when Sherlock rejected him on their first not-a-date. This time, it would be harder, but he’d cope somehow. He hoped so.

***

He didn’t sleep well. He didn’t sleep long either. He woke up among the tossed bedclothes with a start when the dark grey twilight was still draping the whole room. He lay there, with his eyes open and with no vestiges of drowsiness left, and the words he should have heard better yesterday hit him like punches, one after another.

“Just this once, John,” Sherlock whispered, almost pleadingly, kissing him.

“I’m okay with it being a one-time thing,” he said as if he wanted to sound reassuring.

He never said he _wanted_ it to be that way.

You shouldn’t interrupt people when they are speaking in distress. Small details now began to arrange themselves in John’s mind. He remembered taking his hand away in the park. Straightening Sherlock up when he showed his affection, in the way he thought appropriate. Saying “We are not a couple of teens.” We are not a couple. What was Sherlock to think of it? Sherlock, who had been recently explaining to him that he was not worth “normal” relationships. Who even saw their friendship as a short-term one, and not because he wished it to be so. _“Now, it’s simple. I like you. You like me too, in a way. Then… you’ll have a family of your own, and it’s over. We’re not bound, and knowing me by now, you should admit it’s to the good.”_

Sherlock also could have overheard what Sally was saying. That he was using John. A selfish psychopath. He saw that John was affected by her words. Upset. Perhaps entertaining the possibility that she might be right. Was Sherlock under the impression that he foisted himself on John, caught him off guard, pushed him into intimacy?

Shame on you, John Watson. He was too preoccupied with being miserable about all his hopes crossed out that he didn’t pay attention to what Sherlock tried to put into words, a waver of odd hesitancy in his voice…

A faint light came from under the bedroom door. A good chance that Sherlock was still awake, pacing soundlessly across the living room, or sitting in the kitchen. John couldn’t wait until morning to talk to him, though he had no idea what he was to say. When he opened the door, however, he stopped dead.

In the hallway, right in front of him, Sherlock was kneeling, a dark silhouette at the entryway to the kitchen, against the dim light behind him.

“Sherlock, what…”

“An apology,” Sherlock breathed out.

John took a step forward, then another.

“Please,” Sherlock said, very low, and reached out a hand, “John, please…”

At this, John’s knees gave out. He slumped to the floor beside Sherlock, with a heavy, crunching noise, very ungracefully, but it didn’t matter. “Oh you fool,” he murmured. “You fool… Christ, you’re so cold, how long have you been… here?”

“Since you went to sleep.” The words came out pinched and barely audible – Sherlock buried his face against John’s shoulder. It was a few moments later that John realized Sherlock was shaking not only from the chill, it was very much like a suppressed panic attack. “Sherlock…”

“I’m not… I don’t… It’s just… I just thought what if you came out and walked past me like I was invisible.” He choked down a half-laugh, half-gasp. “Sort of déjà vu.”

“Come on, let’s get up, let’s get you warm…”

He tried to help Sherlock clamber to his feet, but they both sagged back to the floor. “I… I can’t,” Sherlock said confusedly. “Legs gone numb. So we’ll… we’ll just have to do it like this.”

“What…”

“I need to – I want to make up to you – I must have said something untoward – but just tell me what it was, I don’t – I honestly… I thought you wanted – nothing complicated, nothing fixed, nothing you couldn’t abandon – you did when we first met…”

“And you turned me off,” words sprang from John’s tongue.

“I’m not usually interested in… one-time liaisons,” Sherlock hesitated about the choice of words, cheek pressed to John’s shoulder, but then went on in a more coherent manner, and less hurriedly, now that he came to the conclusion John wasn’t going anywhere, “It’s disconcerting, you see. Inexpedient, also. So much effort for nothing. To charm, to seduce, or allow yourself to be seduced, just for a single night, and then you’re on your own again. Doesn’t make a difference. Or does, but in a bad way… You asked me about the photograph, on my phone,” he said all of a sudden. “Why I kept it. It was the last one, made after Rich had taken me home from your flat. Rich said I ought to have a reminder with me, always, of what happened when I misbehaved. But it’s not why I didn’t delete it when we broke up. It should remind me of what I tend to forget – when you are alone, or in pain, and then for a brief moment you think it will be better, and then again return to what you’ve had… It always hurts more after that, even if the situation is objectively just the same, and you thought it bearable, previously. Therefore – it’s better not to look for transitory improvements.”

That photograph – John remembered it, very vividly, though he had seen it only for a few seconds. Sherlock’s lips pressed in a thin line, a cry fighting to break through… So it was after Richard had taken him back to Baker Street, and Sherlock had been expecting that maybe he could stay at John’s place, maybe John would patch him up, and hold him, and promise he’d be alright. A hot wave of guilt almost made John groan. If he were more observant, if he were less concentrated on licking his own wounds, he wouldn’t have put Sherlock, damaged and lost, right into Richard’s arms. He felt like a failure, twice a failure, because he’d abandoned Sherlock again this night, left him in doubt and self-loathing, confused and contrite, waiting alone on the cold floor.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, his throat tightening. “I’m so sorry…” His only excuse was that he always did as Sherlock told him, but that was a feeble one, really. This time, he wasn’t going to let Sherlock slip away and make them both miserable. “Listen, just listen,” he pleaded. “If we’re talking about us, about now, and not about Rich, or what I wanted when we first met – I barely knew you then, after all… There’s a flaw in your logic, Sherlock, don’t you see? Wouldn’t it hurt you if we gave up what we started today? You seemed to be so happy just a few hours ago...”

They still sat huddled together. John tried to withdraw a little to see Sherlock’s face, but Sherlock held him back, reluctant to break the hug as if it were their last one, and declared grimly, not looking up, “As I’ve said – I tend to forget. That’s what reminders are for. You said you barely knew me – but after having got to know me better, you showed no intention… – no, don’t say again you’re sorry – it was expected, and I wanted it that way, I got something more important instead. With you, I’m never pretending to be someone else, any better than I am. I had a luxury of being myself, and you stayed with me, despite of that. It was so different from the relationships thing, with the need to be flexible, compromising, to put on an act, to be a fake… If we don’t spring into having an affair, or if we decide to be lovers with no obligations, we can still be friends afterwards, we can still have this. It would hurt much worse if I were to think it could be something long-lasting, and then...”

“Sherlock, it could…”

“It really couldn’t,” Sherlock interrupted him resolutely. “Not if you won’t be… less you. You’re a good man, John, you are not likely to apply extreme measures if needed, and in my case, there’s almost always a reason for it. You won’t be able to handle me. To keep me on a leash. It will all end most unpleasantly.”

He had heard Sally, that venomous woman, and John hadn’t said a word in his defense. Instead of avoiding argument, he should have said Sherlock was the best man that he had ever known – as loud as he could, so that everyone would hear.

“Or it won’t end, and then it will be even worse,” Sherlock continued bitterly. “The thing is – I’m afraid, John. Afraid. If we don’t settle the rules now, I’d be strongly tempted to manipulate you into a relationship. I could do it, so that you’d stay bound to me, for a long time. Out of compassion, out of your quaint sense of duty. And I’d be a very lucky man – but _you_ wouldn’t, not free to find someone who suited you better. It’s unacceptable. Not fair. Caring for me is a disadvantage, John.”

“You suit me alright,” John assured him emphatically. “There’s nothing wrong with you. No one could be better. Can’t you see – I stayed with you not _despite_ but _because_ of who you are. And I don’t want to _handle_ you, no. I want to spend my whole life with you. If you let me.”

Sherlock finally looked up, clearly startled, “You do? Why? Living with me is inconvenient.”

It’s as if I didn’t know it – and as if it ever bothered me, John thought. “Out of purely selfish reasons,” he explained. “I was happy living with you, and without you, I wasn’t. Logical. Besides,” he added philosophically, “speaking of inconveniences – life is all about them. That’s the way it is. And I very much prefer us being alive to being dead, however inconvenient it might be.”

That seemed to settle the argument, at least for the moment, and John used the break to chafe Sherlock’s feet to restore the circulation.

“You think you’re bad at relationships,” he murmured in the process. “ _I’m_ bad at relationships. I shouldn’t have given you advice on the matter. I can be a total idiot, so don’t expect everything will be ideal. We will be arguing, and maybe shouting at each other occasionally – we did sometimes, and I’ll be sulking, and you’ll be sulking. But no one will be on his knees because that’s not how things will work between us, alright? And I guess we’ll manage somehow, together – we used to, didn’t we?”

“Hm,” said Sherlock.

John hauled himself to his feet and helped Sherlock up, and they both stumbled towards the bedroom.

“Do you mind if we leave make-up sex for the morning?” Sherlock asked, uncertainly, as he slid under the duvet, having peeled his rather dusty pyjamas off.

“Yeah, I think make-up sleep will do for now,” John agreed.

Sherlock settled down on the opposite side of the bed. John would prefer to spend the night pressed to Sherlock beneath the covers, to curl around him protectively, and be lulled to sleep by the rhythm of his breathing, but if Sherlock wanted his private space and felt more comfortable sleeping without cuddling, it was alright too – there were two of them to consider.

At dawn, though, John woke up feeling the heavy pressure of Sherlock’s body slowly ramming him off the bed. Sherlock had shifted in his sleep, and now his arm was sprawled against John’s pillow, and the sheets were all wadded beneath them both.

“Sherlock, move away a bit, I’m falling,” John murmured, smiling drowsily, and slightly pushed Sherlock towards the centre of the bed to gain more space. Sherlock stirred, started violently at the touch – his first reaction was to roll back as far as he could to the other side of the bed, knees pulled to the stomach, hands protectively on his face in such a habitual gesture that sleep instantly fled away from John, anxiety welling up like nausea.

“Sherlock?” He touched Sherlock’s shoulder gently, unsure what to do. “It’s me. It’s fine.”

Sherlock’s body went slack. He let out a short laugh, without turning to face John. “Still accustomed to take all the space in bed. An old habit of sleeping alone for so long. I can’t say it won’t happen again. I do it all the time, no matter what.”

John’s hand was resting on Sherlock’s chest, and he felt Sherlock’s heart still racing. “No matter what” must have been bad, and John couldn’t decide how to make it alright, how to kill the ghost of Richard Brook. John couldn’t let him always sleep between them while they’d be fighting nightmares on their own sides of the bed.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. “Come here. What if we lay in the middle together? Would you mind?”

He slipped an arm under Sherlock’s head, and his other hand stole over Sherlock’s waist. Now they were lying like spoons, with John’s knees tucked up behind Sherlock’s. A perfect fit.

Sherlock seemingly relaxed into the embrace, but he was not fine yet, and far from it. It wasn’t all mended. It was not that simple. Sooner or later, though, everything will be as usual, John thought. There will be violin music at untoward hours. Scratches and scorches on the kitchen table. Weird clients in the living-room. And the flat will be full of chemicals and criminal relics in most undesirable places…

It felt like normal life again.

**Author's Note:**

> My [Tumblr](https://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com).


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